we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
Author: Dave Bonta
I live in an Appalachian hollow in the Juniata watershed of central Pennsylvania, and spend a great deal of time walking in the woods. My books of poetry include FAILED STATE: HAIBUN, ICE MOUNTAIN: AN ELEGY, BREAKDOWN: BANJO POEMS, and ODES TO TOOLS.
turkeys in snow
each footprint resembles
a bird in flight
bitter cold day
crushing dried horsebalm
for the scent of lemons
The first people to make flutes from bones:
what must they have believed about music to search for it there?
In this new upside-down world
crops grow in the absence of sunlight, sexless and cold as an economist’s dream.
In the ideal interrogation room
the only shadows are kept like handkerchiefs in the pocket.
The sky of my childhood
was full of places to climb and sit.
dog in the fog
muzzle swiveling to catch
every scent
She became the heroin
in a made-for-TV drama, cops busting down the door in the middle of the day.
Resolution
I must never forget how exhilarating it felt to find myself briefly at the head of a mob.
It’s hard to lay down a burden
once you’ve given it your own name.
Blue blood
belongs only to those with no need for veins, like a wanderlust that starts where the highway ends.
