Nathan Hoks

Chaos Anaxagoras
New Poems From the USA

 

The damp light today sponges up
in your finger nails, you turn sideways
always to lance
the hailstorm approaching

our sandstone town or snap elastic
the half-eaten apple
in dawn. I asked and was disgusted

to drink the colorless horizon.
Crags crawl up the shoreline.
The cast-iron cooking pot sheds rust

over the kitchen floor as if
to have a mind of winter were to be
winter with a fist shackled
in the frozen bucket, shackled and blue

and peeling from myself. I come down slowly
in lambskin to touch
the fractured femur, to Hail Mary
and open the wallpaper

mist in blue water
for this is a morning of
numbly stuck ocean-salted faces.
Dry electric winter, you tear me

heavenward, silence so vast
it annihilates everything. I have a head
yet no metallic stethoscope.
What sort of man am I made of?