Watching the Film About Robert Bly
By James K. Zimmerman
hair white as the snows
he remembers, sky
he writes about
nail-bitten hands pushing
rocks uphill, furrowed
still flutter like
sparrows
when the wheat is ripe
gray eyes full as a
morning
fog in Minnesota winter
voice at times the honk
of a goose in migration
laugh of a midnight loon
prideful lion’s roar
bellow of a moose in rut
on his serape
his father’s dust lingers
Basho whispers in his ear
the popcorn is very good
with butter and salt
and after, there is a
long line
at the urinal, drumming
