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Cover: Charles River dam,
So Natick, MA

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Weir: a low dam built across a river to raise the level of water upstream or regulate its flow.

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I

Birdsong irksome at first
light’s hearing
as you wake from
tuneless dreams
of who knows what origin—
another futile query.
All of your advanced tools await.
Rain quiets the birds.
Go back to sleep,
sorry world—
building
another day.

II

The poor flowers
that dazzle the eyes—
breezily conscripted
to symbolize.

III

I have put
the finishing touches
on the redesign
of my living room.
I have chopped up the last chair
and pitched it into the fire
of the last poem.
The room is “empty”
“Do you want to take a walk?”
my carpeted shadow asks.
“Yes, before the sun sets.”
Before another ashen word drifts through

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IV

Slithering swale to the left,
swale-sheen to the right;
I’m shuffling along the ridge—
another autumn’s moonlight.

V

You wake with a start,
Heart profoundly beating.
Can’t get back to sleep?
They say try counting sheep.
Such razor-wire bleating!
Dreams, disturbing art.

VI

Laughter in the other room.
Should you ask what’s so funny?
Are you a true seeker,
leaking figments into the roux?
How sound are you?
This word-working—
time to close up shop for now—
take in the light snow
in the bright throes of space,
in the light throes of the spacious air,
not merely your snug lair, though . . .

still here, still stars,
still the swill of the scroll,
along with the promise, the hope, yep, nope,
the stooping to see
what’s shining up from the muck—duck!

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David Wolf © 2023