Catharsis

The red and yellow wrecker jerks its chrome
snout aside as we mount the final rise,
hooks a blue sedan in the reedy ditch,
pulls it from the nameless purple blossoms
as we coast into our valley, slowing
to see what sickness we’ve eluded now.

Ulysses’ ship is beached on the mind’s loom,
drawn out of the whirl of wanting to know.

E poi the corn beyond the moldered band
of blackberry, dogwood, hidden morel
rustles as ragged beards bent over oars
below stars at the bottom of the world.

The slow curve doubles, crosses saddled streams.
Cattle bow to sun shoots plump underfoot.
A red-tailed hawk processes in the curl
of turkey vultures turning in the light,
waiting to fan the faces of the dead.

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