The New Jersey Swamp Slips Past the Glass

The ice-rimmed pools, the grey road,

the January of the horizon, question.

Where are you going? My grandfather had

a foundational faith that has gone wholly

uninherited. In the hospital, his delirium broke

once. He sat up suddenly, eyes clear like the sky

swift-scoured as the storm breaks. His voice

loud. He said, it’s so beautiful. And lay back down.

I wish I’d asked – what? He had showed me once

how to splice a rope so that its ends would not fray.

It’s so beautiful could mean so much,

or nothing at all. What is? What? DRIVE SAFELY,

say the letters on the storehouse wall. Ahead

the smokestacks breathe into the open sky.