he thought he’d come home
free, yet finds himself
at the end of the earth
where it is morning, and still
too early—
when the mist burns off,
when sunlight slips
through the ravaged trees
like a gentle hallelujah
he will recognize nothing,
not a bird, not a leaf
it will be as though
he has crossed the River Styx
into life
as he no longer knows it–
a riot of flowers will be
waiting
waving wilding their heads at him
like grotesque life forms
demanding to be lopped off
what was dearest
he will feel least for,
what was pastoral
will be most brutal
like a snapping turtle
sticking its long neck
out, to hiss and spit
music will be torture
when he climbs the fence
to walk in green, open
sunny space
his wife, his son
will look up at him
with small, blank stares
like someone else’s sheep
—from Oceania 2008