DITTY

the fal­cons had come in March
along with high water

it did not want to be spring
what­ev­er it had been

the water was not leaving
but the fal­cons were here

and every turn of wing
said die to a pigeon

the cold earth and its layer
had to give up to sun

but snow of an April night
made any change away

it did not want to be spring
only to make away

what­ev­er it seemed to be
what­ev­er it had been

SUBSIDENCE

you had known city too and
the draw of its vor­tex on
approach­ing high­way traffic
but the home that drew you did
not move
you made the mother
farm­stead out on the seabed
prairie into a garden
and were the woman of it
who let each ani­mal and
plant and
human come and go
in time around you taking
wine only to mute the news
of the wide veldt or to sleep
not­ing a whorl only in
the green
one that did not move
but the hint of move­ment in
no more than a whirlpuddle
you had to look at too and
the oth­er wine that night made
you see
the whole gar­den with
you on a dumb whirligig
mov­ing down into earth and
maybe rota­to­ry wine
was in the mug or maybe
the weight
of the unspoken

Walk­er’s Interim

hawk had looked at walk­er so made
him turn in time to see it leave
the branch and dip toward one east
of the riv­er that had nothing
human around it
light again
would have been a farm and harvest
there the heavy itchy clothes in
damp heat of bind­ing or swathing
a yelled name that walk­er might have
read in an album and hawk known
and now were not
only weed field
urban thrum
at the edge and sec­tion number
would not mean much to the next to
come nor had to in a walker’s
inter­im pio­neer­ing when
even hawk was arbitrary

DOWNTOWN

last night did not become next day
for the drunk yet they have gotten
to a street bench in it where light
hits them early
why even try
to open an eye when there is
some­one or anoth­er to cough
and cack­le at and stab for half
a smoke later
why want to keep
the dream of Mount Spokane and a
woman and hard talk in a brain
gone gelatin
some may make it
to the kitchen at eleven
whether next day be come or not

TWO MEN
(PDF FEATURE)

Rod­ney Nel­son’s work began appear­ing in main­stream jour­nals long ago; but he turned to fic­tion and did not write a poem for twen­ty-two years, so he is both old­er and “new.” See his page in the Poets & Writ­ers direc­to­ry for a notion of his pub­lish­ing his­to­ry. He has worked as a copy edi­tor and lives in the north­ern Great Plains.