My Columbiad

Through the green
pond and aspens
moves something made up
in my mind     I can say my name
and paired foxes disport then
vanish in the brush     Remarkable
objects are everywhere here     Deer vertebrae
in a runnel     A microwave in a ravine
and the fragments of pop and medicinal
bottles     Night sounds move through real
to reel beyond compare     And that’s where
I always seem to run into you     Sitting
and thinking there     Wish it wasn’t
so     Or wish it wasn’t “and”     Maybe
I should command my surname
to land, light as a nom de plume, on some
ancient Oedipal mound     I am not he     Though
I live in Columbus’ hand     The regents
admonished Chris to “top
her”     Horizontal mists
broke open to a finger
of land

Chris Glomski (© 2012)