NEW JERSEY IS NOT NUMINOUS
The leaves where Sycamore turns
into Balsam Lane fooled us at first
as early golden greens awakened,
and, like the high call of the chickadee,
plucked at our ready strings
(tuned to such a pitch we felt,
at least I did of you, that
patient spirits abided inside
waiting for kin to call them out).
But Jersey isn’t numinous.
Ribbons of geese tricked us, too,
rattling across the sky all March,
until we saw they never light,
just tie and untie in dogged,
The deer (I remember up North when we
spied one: your delight leapt from your mouth
into my bitter heart, balm in Gilead),
the deer are squirrels here, gray and many,
roadkill, trophies, monstrous
on the highways’ shoulders.