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Not the junebugs strumming as though
such bald music is their ticket to the light,
but these things essentially silent,
that seem assembled impromptu
for this evening. Crawling screens
for a flaw that will admit them, they look
temporary, put together out of whatever
detritus lies around—bits of cornshock,
seedcoat, twig. Still others seem objets
from the hoard a plow turned up,
inlaid with enameling, or else
illuminated, escapees from a gospel's
margins. Winged crustacean souls,
hatched from clotted air
and glaucous webs down in the cauldron
of the marsh, travelers of the synapses
between leaps of being, they want
in, they want to loopily unwind around
this room, as if their mission is to make us
glad for everything we are and are not.
The most recent collection of poems by Brendan Galvin '60, Place
Keepers, was published in November by Louisiana State University
Press.
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