HIM LOOKING STILL
In a clearing of woods, he leaned against the car he'd packed. His wife, her mama inside the squat brick house behind him slept. He stood.
He'd come out to breathe. He'd just been about to. He burned
He steps out the garage. He stares at the house, this one tall, wooden. The bat of him left him comes back and sees.
He still a staring creature. Stares at stars, the few
His wife on the couch sleeps. Her nerves stressed to him it seems. The leg ones burst. Her feet kick out the covers, kick back in. They do this for hours.
She sits up and looks afraid at him. Her pupils
Moving around the country gives you a lot of chances to look at yourself from different angles. "Him Looking Still" for me describes one of these moments. It was a clear night, and I found myself in a very familiar space (outside garage, just staring at the house, thinking), this time halfway across the country (yet again). Regarding style: well it certainly looks like I was rereading Berryman when I wrote this poem.