3.7 Tremor on the Hayward

by Tom Clark

December first, a gloomy Friday, 3.10 PM,
Just as the Great Pretender picked the phone up
All things shook sharply once, scaring us,
Scaring the cat, who jumped a foot then split,
Fur standing on end. Between heartbeats several seconds passed.
The archer counts the spaces between beats and sees
The arrow into the target. The ax quivers in the core
Of the world tree, and the heart bleeds a little
Sticky white sap. There is a prescient trembling.
The sky stays gray. A light rain falls. The grey
Wolf still watches above the encampment, for he
Knows his destined time will come. The bonds
Will snap, long though the waiting must be.
The light rain stops, later, and out comes a moon
Soft with an off-white fuzz like mildew
On a peach floating in a cold black wine,
Very Greek, beneath which homeward slinks the
Wet and wondering pussy, tentatively forgiving.

© 1996 by Tom Clark
Original GRIST On-Line publication.
Tom Clark's most recent book of poems is Like Real People (Black Sparrow Press.
GRIST On-Line. March 1996. http://www.thing.net/~grist.
Contributing Editor: Robert Bové

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