I wake dreaming of Rome
and find my body
in another place.
and find my body
in another place.
Left ear: hum of something
not quite electric.
Michigan traffic unchained
from its
source. Right ear:
whatever the power plant
is doing with coal
and water.
Low turbine hum.
River intake, river spill.
The GM plant 30 acres
of concrete. My
American piazza, no church,
demolition is progress.
Cardinal now on the
back lawn digging
for grubs—the lawn is rife
with them
these perfect spring
mornings, it is impossible
to see them, they curl
low in the earth like albino
fingers. Spill of lint
from the eaves
where the sparrows have
nested, hawk’s nest
high in that lot left unzoned
by the city so there is
still some faint trace of
openness, reciprocity,
in the clutch of air tiered
beside the river.
Two blocks over, a Kawasaki,
early morning, tests
the south lane’s theory
of deliverance with
its laser blast of speed, MLK
to the interstate.
The sound comes in waves
as if from the edge of
the universe. It expands,
contracts. Spirals,
tilts. Tower of blood,
antenna of longing and
nerve and ear, I
dress myself in its ivory gauze.
DENNIS HINRICHSEN is the author of six books of poetry. His most recent are Rip-tooth, winner of the 2010 Tampa Poetry Prize, and Kurosawa’s Dog, winner of the 2008 FIELD Poetry Prize. He lives and teaches in Lansing, Michigan.
