DENNIS GOZA

Clods, Clocks, and Clouds    

My grandpa was the surveyor
who claimed a weathervane in a dream
pointed him westward, away from clods
parched as a hangman scowl, over peaks
driving a gaunt nag to some plot where
his children someday might blot his curse.
Shortening routes by threading them
through his scope. 

My papa was the tillerman
flattening the earth, his bequest;
stung by the bells of passages 
from clocks in towns too far removed,
he sweated on, burying seeds
and/or bones. Not for the issue
but the deed rooted in his name,
he straightened narrow furrows like an oath. 

These days I am the frequent flyer
with immaculate luggage, freely
cruising transient, fungible routes
without destinations, drawing snail tracks
between the clouds, above the patchwork
my forebears cobbled so gropingly.
Banking on gauges of error's trials,
I'm drifting high while scanning low.

 

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