You can’t sneer away the clouds
knuckling their great abstractions.
You can’t rename every street
after your few brave followers.
I’ve tried to appraise you with song
on the tip of my tongue, but lack
the requisite melody. Stones
rattling in a mountain brook
would more likely catch your ear.
Today we expect to hear the truth
or read it in the New York Times
where every nation has a say.
We also expect the rain to arrive
in a cornucopia of wind
tinted by solar distractions.
You refuse to credit the mind
that mapped the atom forever.
You place no faith in the art
that names itself after silence.
You expect celestial glassblowers
to render landscapes so fragile
and elegant that your old aches
and pains will find no place to settle.
I wish you luck and favor
but don’t believe the purples
inherent in the painter’s eye
will rescue you from suffering
you wrought to punish yourself
for disowning the nation you crossed
a dozen times driving alone.
Let’s agree on something small
enough to pocket when we tire
of fondling its many contours.
The day exposes a yellow rind
under a sickly overcast.
Let’s read the newspaper at home
and leave the absences grinning
in the public streets where anyone
can mistake anyone for themselves.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities and retired after three decades at Keene State College. His most recent book of poetry is Stirring the Soup (2020). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.