On Louis Simpson's Saying Dan Gerber Should Write Poems About
Car Crashes Since He Had Been a Racing Car Driver

Peter Neumeyer

The corners of the world are quiet:
mushrooms sprout, blow out, up in amazing silence
as trout, in sinuous choreograph, flex against the stream
Fido, my cat who wreathes her tail,
white bones of a coot I loved and wrote about
My father's bone ash buried over sea
Roots whorling under worms who moil
mounds, mute gnawers in my wall
Bill's banyan tree the root of which
        cracks doom on rocks
The shadow of your face across the page
Your silent arias of love
Blueberry spider in the sun
hawser creak on dock
the pebble in my pocket
blood thundering in the stock still books I love
snow covering conflagrations in manure
citadels, cities of sowbugs, of ants
generations of mites, aphids in armies
                                                              forests in death
The earth is filled with explosions
      Stronger, because silent.
                    mute empires

  turn over

   in the stillness
   in the darkness
                       in the night.


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