I see little of steep hills around me— fog
wraps the dark pines so tightly that the night's
nailed down like planks. Beside the highway log
barriers trim the timber trails. Thrre lights
burn on a tower, as a fire fights
off dying. Everything alive is quiet. Still
as stands of fir. Past midnight now, my sight's
confined to meagre stars above. This chill,
I've heard, is passing— soon the sun will fill
our lives with warmth. These forests thick, in time,
will dry and retreat— melting off the hill.
That is why tonight I made this climb:
to see my word again before the old
furious globe returns to kill the cold.
I will contact the police
and claim an unsolved murder,
because I've never shouted in this city.
I am timid with my lovers,
so I wrote to tell my parents
I have fondled unnamed children near their home.
Suppose I never pray?
I haven't cared in years.
In Confession, I tell the Father I throttle cats.
I am so much relieved
in the peace of every day
that I phone live radio, denouncing blacks.
For— after all— a man
without an edge is nothing.
Andrew MacArthur is a poet who makes his home in Portland, Oregon, where he also hosts the Meander Open-Mic poetry reading.