Go

Geese over snow, their two notes

may mean two things:

go     follow. If I had only two words

they’d better solve many needs.

Two gulls on a beach leap up,

turn sideways.  Long wing tips brush

sand.  Then with skill both land.

I need to say such sentences

but repeat “snow” for I go through it

and look back at my tracks.

No one follows. Over the meadow

by rocks, brants gobble seaweed. 

They need an arctic ambience.

I try to think what I need

and they don’t.  Boots?  Books?

No bulb lights my roomy head.

Geese need smaller heads

and wings and salad.

It’s quiet.  Snow sings

nearly no sound, not even

go.  I run on light

on a big field of snow.  Geese go

over condos, into Brooklyn.

A choral avalanche follows.