Maine's Dirge

I wonder if these towns have secrets. Deep underneath

the town halls, or inside the broken down houses.

I wonder if these woods have seen ghosts. We all have ghosts,

every one of us, and they are drunk, and boisterous, and lonely –

and I wonder if these lakes, the lakes visited by the black head loons, are feral.

Has the freshwater lived without the blood of us all?

Have the loons learned the quivering night-call, cutting through the silent ponds? At night, the bullfrogs bloated break,

croak –

I wonder if these crushed cans thrown on the pavement have

hidden secrets – is there an ancient fire lurking

deep below the tall wheat grass?

We are the living ghosts, haunted in our daylight –

we call this state home, through the piled snow and the brutal, cold,

open February. We warm ourselves, naked, next to wood-fires

and light our candles in the barn.

Deep inside of Maine’s midnight, we find a cold, dark place. We

are all feral children, born on cold earth,  with ears pressed to soil, braying at the moons through

whiskey bottles, and coffee brandy champagne--

and we see the ghosts rushing past in the dead moonlight of the great Maine North