Virtual

Marble

Michael Finley

For a nicer text, download the e-book version.

Published poet to sculptor
in an edition of one,

August 5, 1996, for Eric Johnson,
of Nova Scotia,
Redstone, Colorado and
other points west.

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Bay of Fundy

the tide keeps
complaining

ish ish ish

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

rain rinses the terraces stacked
by years of careful climb
losing balance, there a lamb
somersaults downhill

the spring's first cherries
rotting in the damp
cedar waxwings totter drunk
on phone lines

cattle crowd along the strand
outside the drive-in movie
subtitles, subtleties they disdain
mulling the mint that grows there

A DRIVE in the COUNTRY

Summer was dry but the
Farmers forget and plow
The dead stalks under.
Today the wind is lifting
The first loose dirt away.
The elms in the Mahnomen
Park are striped for
Felling, and sugar beets
Litter the roads at sharp
Curves. Tree trunks lay
Scattered where they
Landed after the tornado
Of 1958. Outside
Crookston a yellow dog
Just made it to the ditch
To die, and farther
Ahead, a mile from the
Border, old shoes line the
Shoulders. Canadians are
Home now, wearing new
Ones.

Cleveland 1959

Tranquility of a town
even though we're a big city.
Pedestrians leave home early,
take ten extra minutes
to stroll to the office.
The street seems cleaner than usual,
some critical flotsam is missing.
The bus leaves the curb
with a thrill of exhaust.
The birds sit
on the courthouse pediment,
and they are coy about some secret
or other.
The Press and Plain Dealer
have been on strike
for over a month.

FROM THE ROOF

OF MY APARTMENT BUILDING

IN DOWNTOWN MINNEAPOLIS

the moon is down to the cuticle now
the stars nod in and out

the night goes as dark and as deep
as the hole in the shed

of the potato farm in michigan
that grandfather bill

had, and
lost

THE ILIAD

A cavern blasted amid high-standing corn

like the swath of a broadsword

in the prayer-chamber of the house of virgins --

trampled stalks and the crushed green ear,

braid-bearded against the ground, listening

long after the final blow is hurled.

Phantom forces have met on the night-cloaked

food-strewn fields and in their fierce combat

shed blood and laid vegetables to waste.

Their waters turned clay vermilion, their dew

that skidded and sprayed through the night

now glitters in the rosy-fingered dawn.

What German shepherd made watchman by war

and named Ajax after a foaming cleanser

now perks his ears at the scent of raccoon

on potato patrol in his quadrant of corn

and unassisted pads the township road

and accosts the raiding masked intruder?

The din of crash and gnashing fills the plain,

the tears of Ceres and countless nyphs of grain

spatter the sides and gnawed limbs of warriors,

even the light in gin-soaked Yeoman Magruder's

bedroom down by Turtle Lake flicks on

as neighors near and far attend the clash.

By sun-up only the star-shaped wake remains,

and the trail of scarlet collecting in furrows,

leading through the dazed and shivering maize

to the banks of Jacks Creek's moaning curl,

where face-down in mud and open-bellied

the slack-jaw bandit sips his fill of death.

Back on Farmer Fagan's wooden porch

stout-hearted Ajax hints and whines,

split-cheeked and eyeless, ruffed collar

drips red and the faithful shepherd bleats

and nudges the screen, honored to share

good news in what moments of glory remain.

LITTLE JO

Is it irony to be old
Yet small, 86 but 4 foot 9?
Putting breakfast

Together, Jo pushes a
Stepladder from cupboard
To cupboard. My friends

Are dead and so's their
Kids. TV's no good
Since they took off

Bonanza. She stops me
In the hall one night.
You know what I'd like,

She says, before the
Rent went up and put
Her in a high-rise and

Me in a duplex, Some-
Times I'd like to go out
Like I used to and just

Run around for a while.

OLD STONE ENTERS
INTO HEAVEN;

The Master Calls Him to His Reward

Old Stone was a mean man, whole
Town of Kinbrae knew that for
Entertainment he used to take pot
Shots at his dog, a good old girl
Deserving better. One day Stone was
Said to have got bad news from
Montevideo, folks saw him stride
Past the post master's kicking dust,
Spitting on the side walk and
Cussing out the Goose Town Savings &
Loan. Mr. Miller said he purchased
A package of Illinois whiskey and
That was what they found later on, a
Broken bottle by the pump house well
That'd just gone dry. Must have
Hauled his rifle down where it hung
By the stove and stomped out to the
Yard with a box of fresh shells,
Loaded and reloaded, pumped lead
Into the milk shed wall and cackled
And gnashed his nasty teeth. His
Yellow tears skittered down his dry
Cheeks as the dark deed formed in
His mind, the notion occurring to
Complete the thing for once and for
All, and he whistled Betty to heel
At his feet. And she sidled,
Shivering, up and imploringly searched
For the better nature behind his red
Eyes as he pulled two sticks of
Dynamite from a tool bin and tied
Them to the poor bitch's tail, lit
The long fuse, smacked her hind end
And sat down on the hole and watched
Through the open out house door as
The dog took off yelping straight
Through the kitchen doorway and dove
Under the master's brass post bed
With the eider down comforter pulled
Down in after her. No no no no,
Cried Stone, and he screamed with
All his saw toothed might with the
Indignation of a man so wronged by
Creation perverted by willful beasts
Like a dog so dumb she couldn't even
Get blown up right, and he screeched
Her name and called her forth and
Condemned her disloyalty as the
Least best friend a most cursed man
Might have, a churlish cur who
Fought his dominion from the day she
Was whelped, who missed regular naps
Thinking up ways to undo him, him,
Him who now wailed like a ghost to
Get out, get out, get out, get out
Of my pine board, tar paper, china
Platter house God damn your four
Legged soul. And Betty, hearing his
Break down with out and imagining
Herself the object of some grand
Reprieve at the hands of this
Passionate and lovable if you really
Undertook to know him but until then
Deeply misunderstood failure of a
Man and imagining moreover her life
Long ordeal at those knotted hands
To be miraculously over and herself
Forgiven of the loathsome crime of
Having been his, dashed happily down
The rock porch steps and full tilt
And with her master's heartfelt
Cries of No no no no no echoing
Across the wooded glade leapt gladly
Into his awe crossed arms and the
Two best friends saw eye to eye,
Each bade goodbye, and left Kinbrae
Forever.

BROWSERS

He flipped through the magazines
in the periodical room.

The Cadillac, he thought to
himself, is definitely the
Rolls-Royce of automobiles.

She sauntered through the stacks,
fingers dusting the tops of rows.
The things I don't know,
she pondered, could fill a book.

They stood in line at the
check-out desk,
shifting their weight
like two ships passing in broad
daylight.

STAR

War was in the barnyard air on July 17, 1939, when Star climbed out, stuttering, breech, unruly child with a tomboy forelock. And she bawled and squalled, a calf demanding an accounting. Knock-kneed, bony, loose in the joints.
But baby loved her mother's milk, and often stooped to the task. She grew, she rounded, like the corners of a Holstein balloon, slowly filling with the breath of life.
Star could not know that her suckling would be our suckling. This business of food, and milk, and wet Wisconsin grass!
She grew broad in the shoulder and staunch in the rump, added pounds by the hundred. Her walk was no longer a faltering stumble, or a youngster's half skip. It was the lolling sway of the maid of the pasture. Pink lips mulling the grass of the day, methane scenting the meadows of spring.
And the day came and she was mounted for the first time ever, her parts a soft suitcase for the seed of the thousands. She returned each push with her own affirmation. A factory whistle deep inside her stomachs sounded loud and low and warm.
Star went to work. The milk flowed, tons of it, milk, it gushed from her bag, her aching teats dispensed it by the tanker car, streaming across the Wisconsin watershed. Infants in Chicago sucked. Schoolkids in Joliet drank from cartons. Milkmen clattering doen the alleys of Minneapolis. Jugs on family tables in Escanaba.
These are the figures of a champion's life: 325,000 pounds of milk, over 160 tons, 20 tanker cars, 100,000 gallons. Twelve years the blue ribbon winner at the Wisconsin State Fair. Photographed, garlanded, most famous among all living cattle.
Years passed, tourists from as far away as Mitchell, South Dakota came to see this gracious, dignified, bountiful, generous beast. Thirty calves, each with the tomboy forelock, were her offspring.
At the age of 38 years, the equivalent of 230 human years, the oldest cow in history, she still put in a working day, surrendering daily 15 pounds of high-butterfat milk.
On January 16, 1979, in the same weathered barn she was born in, Star died. Lying on her side in straw, her great heaving flanks coming to a stop.
"It seems so empty now," said the woman who led her to pasture through all the years, since she was a girl of seven.
"She was a good creature, a friend."

The Rebuke of the Kine

The farmer spatters the grass with gas,
shambles forward with match lit,
stoops and unrolls a carpet of flame
and smoke as black as rubber.

He says you burn the weeds the snow
would hang on, drift from, smother
the road, keep pheasant and jack-
rabbit away from the wheels.

Animals knew fire before they knew men.
The cattle's groan rolls over the plain,
suspicious now as ten thousand years ago
of foreigners and foreign food.

Man scrawls his signature in fire:
Defy me, my minions, and see what you get.
The beasts have heard it all before:
Do not leave us tethered again, as meat

in your impetuous path.

CHRISTMAS

the road is a memory
lost in the blizzard
the snow is falling
sideways

the cattle's eyes are
too frozen to blink
they will be dead in
the morning

DOG IN THE MANGER

Hard years after I first hear
the expression
I understand its meaning:
The dog is in the manger,
Napping in the hay.
When cow comes near to eat,

Sharp teeth warn her away.
But you know dogs, sooner
Or later they always repent.
Watch one as he trots out
To pasture, drops a shank-
Bone at your hooves.

ELEVATORS

walking through

the financial district

i smell hay

THE PITTSFIELD TORNADO

easter twister
scrapes through
town, a hoe

of steel
in the grip
of god

away with winter's
hangers-
on

and break
fresh ground
for planting

GOOD

fish in the fishtank

bread in the bag

me waking up on the studio couch

the system is working

HOMEOPENER

Beer bare skin hot sun
And this, perched on a
Tub rim, prying skin,
Laying open the white
Underneath.
This is what snakes do
Every year, spiraling
Outward into time; or
Trees, whittling
Bracelets backwards.
Compulsion hunger
Strange delight in
Lifting away these
Sunburnt sheets, funny
Feeling called getting
Closer.

I HEAR WATER

Inside the aquarium the fish stand still and bubbles roll to the surface. I am standing by the sill

watching the rain come down.

LAST YEAR'S XMAS DANCE

Norwegian farmers in hospitals, islands
Of plastic tubes and fluttering eyelids
Struggle to do what they will not do,
Arise and return to their fields.

Ivor Thorsen of Glendive, Montana,
Disintegrating nerves flown in, is awed
Bu his speechlessness, motionlessness,
Dreams he is laughing in Glendive, Montana.

But the strings inside are all undone,
Incomprehensible to a scarecrow who
Has walked ten thousand furrowed
Crumbled lopsided miles.

Mary, Anna, is it really Christmas Day?
And is it really clumsy me slipping here
With farmer feet on the Legion floor?
Oh look at me Mother I'm dancing.

THE BUSINESS OF BEES

When prices are normal
And weather cold, bees clump
In a knot, suck sugar
And hum to stay warm.

But when sugar is high
It's cheaper to dump them
Out of their drawers and buy
A new queen come the spring.

This year the bees are
Tumbling, hear: sugar
Is dear, the snow lies
Buzzing on the ground.

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