Talking to God on the Seventh Day

You're not so sure about this world?Listen. Take another look:

the joyful recklessbarking dogs, convinced of doom, hysterical,or only proud to own the yard,the block, the wind --the raised welt of their voicesroughening your dreams.

The new leaves slightly bent, likefingers on guitar,rippling their chord of twigs --and the still-bareslingshot branches,naked as the tails of rats,liminal as roots.

The squirrel crushed in the road,its tail stillwaving, in the wind of passing cars, a flag,and the blackest of black crows,breaching the bodywith its surgeon beak --

black needles of its feet so pleasedwith death,which is also meat, and life.Another squirrel, its rapid jaws

muttering around a nut:My number not up yet not yet bub not yet --

Now tell me why you ever thoughtyou could improve on this

music, this hunger.

~ Ruth L. Schwartz ~


(Edgewater)