Three Works by Sean Tribe

An Ostrich With Its Head In The Sand

The earth shuffles as it sleeps
ants tick, kicking up dust.
Swerving light has no space to cast
shadows over conversations here.
What does you mean?
Beauty in worms
not cicada’s,
or staring birds in trees.
I retreat nothing;
save the distortion of words.
There is no stasis underground
I don’t believe it is still.
Roots pushing to a center.
No, would you explain what you mean.
The noise of Language exists
on the prairie
with gazelles who never speak
and the wind always whining.
The noise of roots,
ticking of ants and
the ferocity of moles is silence.
I don’t believe it is still here.

* * *
In A Museum

dread formed just under
my navel like
the first sexual pulse
my eyes rested on a re-
built T-rex
holding still in the center of a domed room.
people rushed around me
continuing breaking then
reuniting, flowing
the sun must have died.
an invisible
current pushed onward
past the stuffed shark room
beyond the mammal room
into a new kind of darkness
feeling for something
falling backwards onto a marble floor
the air stale
full of movement.
full of darkness
the light must be reforming.

* * *
In Medias Res

and every day the future arrives
on my door step, in newspapers.
My eyes forming
what will follow;
the magpie nibbling on its dead and
the eggs of the robin.
I hang a laurel wreath each morning
above my bed
over toast, reading the newspaper.