Who knows what on earth love is for?
The men: the boys:
I like their thickness.
I like how their heavy features
surround them.
Even the finest boy
has a soupiness about him.
I like that they are
not at all like birds
and I like that
they are born
the same way
as everyone else.
Where did they learn
what it is they believe—
it is easy enough
to get the wrong idea
about eternity.
Stars caper obstinate
and handsome,
but the men and boys
choose to cling here
like thunderclouds
fainting on mountainsides—
they all speak
the loving tongue: French—
no wait: English. No: French—
and now they have all said goodnight.
*
These men are the ones
who go alone to the icebox
in the middle of the night—
those late hours
when everyone else
is asleep. They are the ones
who rise up hungry
from their beds
and go to the icebox
and open the door.
Light and cold
spill to the floor
in a little island
that pleases them.
Like fire, light is an accident:
fire is light’s simple tool
and they find a knife
and wedge an apple
to remove the seeds.
There is snow falling
all night into morning.
They will get up,
lift the snow
and the snow is lifted
and the unincorporated grass
is lifted then the soil
and bands of muck are lifted
and slumbering worms
and the rocks themselves
are lifted over Saint Gertrude’s
ringing bells
which are mistaken when they say:
bless this bless this bless this
*
This morning
on their way to work
each man is tender
toward the world
and how everyone got here:
the way the woman
outside the dry cleaner
smiled at this one and the way
the clerk at the bank
told the other to wish for some sun
reminded me of parasols—
old-fashioned in a way
that is not unseemly.
*
On the train: the strange
language of two boys:
one is reading Hebrew:
the other learned to read
but failed to learn to learn.
They have grown fond
of the cast-over look
of the sky
that the cove of an arm
could gentle away.
One of the boys remembers
the Japanese word
for empty hand
is karate
and the Chinese for
gentle way is judo.
I strain to kiss the backs
of the boys’ necks—
gentle slopes
of passing ground
that fill with geese—
and life moves backward
once again on its migratory V
and the boys are among
their people again,
and can’t remember
if they kept their clothes
on a chair by the window
or if they always wondered
what their parents
confessed to the priest
every week
but once—for sure—
they pressed a dog’s paw
into some sugar
to stop its bleeding.
*
Who knows what on earth love is for:
it is a different kind of quiet
when a boy begins to write
the chirp of birds the hum of men
All winter long
structures take shape
in the boy’s mind
and in the minds of
his brothers—
pretty white birdhouses
in countless plans—
the birds loving him.
The birds love him
and tongue the air
through the spangled spindrift.
*
The sky has come down to earth or the grass raised up, fretful and collusive;
the forest is a lesson in beech.
It is rare for them
to look skyward—
to show concern
for what might happen
above their heads
in the realm of God.
All of yonder
covers them
and no one else
will speak or rise
so they take the
smaller pleasure
of riding their bicycles
no-handed
down the lane.
The last boys in the world
are marking time
parading on the fairground.
Everyone is beautiful in a parade:
in the moving pageantry
the ventriloquy of beauty
is nearly everywhere.
In time the parade will pass
and every good boy
will be beautiful at last
and though blinded by confetti
in streams and streams
and streams,
will do fine.
Richard Fox’s poems have appeared in numerous journals. He has been the recipient of awards and grants from the Illinois Arts Council and the City of Chicago. He holds a BFA in Photography from Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia.