POSTSCRIPT TO THE AENEID
These are no arms or men the poet sings,
But just some very ordinary things:
The plastic station-wagon seat, the grass
Of May reverberating through the glass;
My brother hooting to himself, my sister
Staring ahead, me picking at a blister
Then looking up to shout: a lamb was caught
In a fence. The car stopped. Children scooted out.
We helped each other through barbed-wire strands –
Shooed off like gnats by our excited hands –
And raced across the falling wave of ground
To where he stood — but, startled at the sound
And wrenching free, he trotted to the side,
Which made us stop and watch him, open-eyed
And empty-headed at the strange good cheer,
The unknown joy of what had happened here.
I am still there this moment, not alone
With UPS, blaspheming on the phone.
Freer than God, I am not what I am,
But the child He sees running toward the Lamb.