Thomas R. Moore

No wife, no mother, so I hoodwinked my son,
a damaged kid. I wore grayish talons and

the penalties have grown stiff—no balms and
only wisps of grassiness sewn into dreams.

Woo Woo sings Joni, thin and high. Drifts
curve behind the boat-house and one cedar

hangs like a falling axe over the snow. I took
him up, led him on, and left him in a white

metal crib. But there was no thicket, no ram,
so I was the trickster. Was it my voice? Was

there no chapel for prayer? The seasons go
round and round
and O, it weights me—

I led the way. May I investigate miraculous
? May I forgive myself?