THREE POEMS

The Enchanted Bluff

You can see here, though the marksare faint, how the river must once have coincidedwith love’s most eastern boundary. But it’s years nowsince the river shifted, as if done with the sameview both over and overand never twice, whichis to say, done at last with conundrum,just a river—here’s a river … Why not say so,why this need to name things based on whatthey remind us of—cattail and broom, skunkcabbage—or on whatwe wished for: heal-all;forget-me-not. Despite her dyed-too-black hairwildly haloing her shoulders, not a witch, caftannedin turquoise, gold, turning men into better men,into men with feelings—instead, just my mother,already gone crazy a bit, watching the yard fillwith the feral catsthat she fed each night.Who says you can’t die from regret being allyou can think about? What’s it matter, now, if shelearned the hard way the difference finally betweenfreedom and merelysetting a life free? As muchas I can, anyway, I try to keep regret far from me,though like any song built to last, there’s arhythm to it that, once recognized, can be hardto shake: one if by fear, with its double flower—panic, ambition; two if by what’s the worst thing