HERE


in this spare forest windy accents are longing
to enter the mouths of the silent actors
to make mon: of this than a wooded matinee.
With these trees standing at moral attention
you can ask questions: Are these really The Wonder Years?

Or to vary a theme: Is the world a tenable place
to live, getting deeper into that deep
unimaginative feeling of being?

Just to forget the lame, the dumb, the poor, the breeding
et cetera, I take to the birches where I’m dumb-
founded by good fortune. The tourniquet
I put on that tree actually marks the point of no return.
I’ve really listened to those sentinels: Whatevcr you do,
they tell me, don’t walk in a straight line
or you’ll walk right out of the woods.

Here for a time,
and for you, there’s a nice-and-easy, a Friday
when leaves are coming and going to color on the floor
of the forest. \\’here they’ll come back to color.
Here, where every path leads you, there’s
a gold key by your feet that opens a golden door.

Nick Johnson

“Here,” Originally published in Poetry in Performance #37, Annual Spring Poetry Festival, The City College of New York, 15 May 2009, Edited by Lynn Dion, pp. 166-167.