GHAZAL

Like marriage, it’s murder with finesse. 

An auto dismantling yard. 

Last night’s storm blew in a fish. 

I never thought of that place between my legs, 

a place where men try to crawl back into.

A warm inlet, an indentation along the creek 

where the salmon come to spawn.

A friend once told me he couldn’t wait, 

so they coupled in the rain, shoulder 

to shoulder with the dead, 

as the townfolk of Cape Cod passed by. 

Ghost shrimp pack the mudflats in Home Bay, 

and crawl out during the full moon. 

At the Hesemeyer’s garage at dawn, 

a row of glazed chickens patiently 

wait for their bronze legs 

to be glued on, so they can be shipped to market. 

Fog lifts momentarily, and the Palisades poke through. 

As we hobble up the slope, I am reminded of home. 

The guttural snore of trucks 

over Mount St. Helena shatters the silence. 

January, 1982 added 2020

Napa workshop with Michael, or Philip Dow? 

Write a ghazal, five separate couplets to make a complete poem.