THE PACIFIST
errol miller
“After the leaves have fallen
we return to a plain sense of things.”
Wallace Stevens
Upon the hill tonight
in autumn’s short night air
there is a delicate strugglee
lost in the overview of ordinary evenings
two forces diverging upon Frost’s road not taken
one of them leading to deprivation
the other to moldy nouns and verbs euphoric
in that transverse shade of winter
the keeper of the words shall have his say
starving the tenants for fresh fruit and vegetables
it is difficult to choose the correct route
in the confusing reality of time and place
Emerson the Thoreau and their experimental
lean-to wisdom, transcendental inkblots
pressed hand-to-hand, that pathway
through New England, by Walden Pond
leading to common ground, that
metaphysical city of white light
with amber strobe lamps burning
dilapidated images of man’s
bumble-bee demise
in a fleshy evening tavern
with curtains drawn.
