Puxatawnie In His Dun Period
Lately, I’d begun to wonder,
as these winters run, one into
another, and another
and another, if existence
was nothing more than Tivo—
filtered Super Bowl halftime shows
in which Jagger and Springsteen
never age, as a pre-dawn stench
of hoar frost on sagebrush
reminds me how prophecy
is history written
in reverse, a Ponzi by Rumi,
generational curse, false spring
after false spring repeating.
I suppose it’s okay, since I dress
in layers, tends to ward off incessant
Deja Vu digressing into retrograde
amnesia, this longing
limned by dread.
Waking from my single bed
of leaf mulch, once again I see
my cousin commingling
with a mole in a nearby cloud of dust.
They chuff, they back bite, somersault
and squeal, but I ask you: If our ending’s
really been told
already, what’s the sense
in ever climbing out
of this hole again?
