He wants to build you a house
out of your own bones, but
that’s where you’re living
The next time he calls
you answer the telephone with the
sound of your grandmother being
born. It was a twenty-three-hour
labor in 1894. He hangs
up. ~Richard Brautigan
Haunched like a faun, he hooed
from grove of moon-glint and fen-frost
until all owls in the twigged forest
flapped black to look and brood
on the call this man made.
No sound but a drunken coot
lurching home along river bank;
starts hung water-sunk, so a rank
of double star-eyes lit
boughs where owls sat.
An arena of yellow eyes
watched the changing shape he cut,
saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout
goat-horns: marked how god rose
and galloped woodward in that guise.
The poetry class at SFCC is starting to maintain the posts. Look for work by favorite poets now–work by the class towards the end of the semester.
Find this one in the central courtyard.