The Tire Swing Repeats Everything

One long swing

                        a flat arc slowly

                                                along a long line

                       of stretched Manila.

    They live here

                        and know and let

                                                  lovers ride their tire

                                      at night.

  Less of every other thing

                                       than this arc slowly.

                                                                    Without the sun the sky

                         is alight with every other star.

        In the dark

                       make one long swing

                                                     flat arc slowly let

                                                                             lovers ride their tire

                                                          and live here.

                 The still spot at the end

                                                    is the pivot: how

                                                                            it stretches out

                                                     for miles between

                      the tree and the road.

There their living

                     room light is on.

                                            My wife, laughing

                                                                     makes one long swing

                                         for miles in the dark

               The tree shadows

half the sky

                half the arc beneath

   the open sky

                    at night

 shows every other thing

     At night everything

                               the sun showed each

                                                           shadows together

                                with the dark ground.

         Every other star

across half the sky.

Half the arc

              stretches out

                               for miles over the dark ground

   between the tree's

                               shadow and the road's.

          She floats, still.

Pivots, moving still,

                      stretching out slowly

                                                for miles, laughing.

                                                                           By me

                                                           on the grass

                       looking up from the ground

at her in the sky.

                   Tucked in to the grass and ground

                                                                 all roots and earth

                                                                                        and everything else buried

                                                            and shaded, looking up

                                  at her swing, the sky

     and everything else.

Your slung weight

                       on the way down builds.

 The ground pulls down.

                                  Then you rise

                                                    out and away, a little

                                                                                   lighter always until

                                                                       that floating.

                                              You weigh nothing

                 and pivot to fall again

  along one arc

                    pivoting slowly.

                                          Lovers, laughing, float

                                at night

      between shadows

over the dark ground.

You're hanging on hard

                                  at the lowest point

                                                            your weight slung closest

                                     to the dark ground.

That is when you move fastest.

                                               It is the pull of everything else

                                                                                         buried and shaded

                                                                                                               on your slung weight

                                                                                     that moves you fastest

                                                                along the long arc

                                                     for miles

                                        in their yard

                 between the tree

    and their light,

laughing.

On Fire

I

From my first memory to the fourth grade

I lived under the sun of constant summer.

Lemon trees to climb. Books. Bedtimes.

Riding tricycles on islands: Coronado and Oahu.

We left the West, all of it,

in a van, friendless, for Virginia.

Our stuff boxed and sent ahead.

California's last sunset a fire on the sea.

I stare at stars through the back glass

tightpacked enough to cast a shadow.

Hearing only engine and road hum.

Lulled, until all is awash in another light.

I am not frightened of the house on fire.

Windows pour flames upwards.

A few silhouette men watching.

No firetrucks. Just the whole house burning,

and them on the street, and us slowly

passing, witnessing, an awe at the thing.

More fire, fountains of it, washing out

starlight from the sky and anything other

than fire and witnesses from behind my eyes.

We passed on the right: a good omen.

A burnt offering to some power

fed all their furnishings, photographs, socks

burning linens, boardgames, bras,

all anchors and fastenings made bright light

then ash. Whatever they are caught

up in over. All comforts also:

the porch at night, kitchen table, couch.

Ruined and free, fire quit them

of the shackles and shelter they had.

Left them all naked of things.

II

Woody Guthrie's house went up.

His mother lit it. Mad, later

she would burn his sister.

And these only half of them:

his father had yet to survive somehow

his mother's match and kerosene

and his daughter die, burnt

in the apartment on Mermaid Avenue.

How he sang anything but bitterness,

or held his heart open to anyone,

or warmed himself at any hearth,

ever lit a candle or cigarette

or sang “you're so pretty

you'd make any mountain quiver

make hot fire fly from the hard rock..."

Passion a flame even for him.

Primitive to his pain and loss

the bright light that eats to ash

all its fed, and love a fire

too, and we aflame with it.

III

We answer the carcrash with candlelight

vigils. A quiet crowd with votives.

Cheap little lights and some company,

some comfort and then we snuff out

the little symbols of ourselves

and bear away the cooling dead.

We walk our children into the woods

having forgotten nearly all we knew:

red oak from white oak, laurel from ash.

These birdsongs blurring together

as we carry coolers of cold drinks

and the small bundle of split wood

bought from the boy at the gate.

We fuss with snacks until sunset

then laboriously light the campfire

we came here, really, to witness.

To sit a few times in our lives

in a dark, uncomprehended wood

within a ring of firelight.