Allegreza
In the harbor, the masts tilt left and right
like metronomes conducting waltzes made of wind
and wave, while on the shingle, gulls pluck whelks
from briny nooks, their gullets pulsing hard
to gulp the rubbery flesh. The shroud-light dims,
diminuendo made of mist descends,
and all the world’s small music fades away.
The sudden silence fills with my labored breath
and the hiss of gravel crushed beneath my boots,
a kind of white noise blunting subtler strains
around me. Ahead, the trail is thronged with crows.
As I approach, they surge away, their wings
and starless croaks resounding through the hills.
I’m shamed that even they are made of song
while I walk mute through symphonies of light
and green and life. The sun peels back the fog.
From somewhere in the grass, a wren sings out,
his warble dazzling, a burst of boundless joy.
Alice
Ungainly summer light, balanced on the crowns
of spendthrift oaks, tips from branch to branch
until it falls on bough and leaf then pools
among arthritic roots, guttering in the shade
and kindling all the dust and pollen bronze.
Against the tree, a girl of seven leans
and reads her book, itself about a girl,
one who spies a rabbit with a pocket watch.
She follows him down a nearly endless hole
to find a realm where all the doors reveal
kaleidoscopic gardens, menageries
of talking beasts, and all the perfect madness
she never dreamed she’d need. The reader blinks,
a sleepy flutter, then finds herself again
among the pillars of the real, the boles.
Rob Griffith’s latest book is The Devil in the Milk (Kelsay Books, 2017), and his previous book, The Moon from Every Window (David Robert Books, 2011), was nominated for the 2013 Poets’ Prize. His first book, A Matinee in Plato’s Cave, was the winner of the 2009 Best Book of Indiana Award. His work has appeared in PN Review, Poetry, The North American Review, Poems & Plays, The Oxford American, and many others. He is the publisher of Measure Press and teaches creative writing at the Savannah College of Art and Design.
