Inventory
       

They said there would be spiders,
& there are—cobwebs appear

in my home like apparitions,
ghosts of a heaven they said

there would be. And I have found
good people here & even

fewer ways to feel alone,
here where the tundra

swans make their layover
from the Arctic: I

hiked to them after the limnologists
announced their arrival.

Afterward, a friend thought I
said tender swans, not tundra,

& the truth is, I couldn't say
either way—were they

tender? I have no carnivorous
sense of humor, but I

have been prone to talking
about the heart, I admit,

which they said would be broken
on arrival, though it

is not broken now, not
anymore. I like to see

the white glue in places. I
have lately devoted

hours of my self to learning
how quickly a crayon

will break between my fingers,
& it doesn't take long,

but God, it feels good
to treat my brain

to cerulean, scarlet,
tangerine & red

for it has snowed
five days in a row

and everything I see
is white, white, white.

And I have decided
with regard to the swans

that they were tender
like a snowplow,

or warm breath
on a frostbitten hand.

Tweet

Copyright © 2014 Oliver Bendorf All rights reserved
from The Spectral Wilderness
The Kent State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission