( d o w n p o u r   /  L e n a p e   T r a i l )

b y    R o b e r t   B o h m

. . . like, off the coast, a whale’s back
briefly surfacing from a murky sea
in the rain at dusk, the

oak root emerges from, then disappears
into, trail mud. Or so
the eyes would have the mind believe as
the torrent slashing down through trees batters more

leaves to the ground. The body, a growth
cut from a larger flesh, clomps along
in boots heavy enough to splatter mud
into what, only
30 minutes earlier, was

a well-ordered disarray
of sticks, stones, bugs, weeds and leaves but is now
itself the squall that pounds it, this
chaos of water and mire

snaking/erupting everywhere. Jacket
soaked, hair sopping, eyeglasses no longer
useable, all that’s left now is

the looking up into
a radiant silvergrayness beyond which
there is no beyond, except

the way north to Banning Park via
Rt. 2 and then -- but I wanted
to . . . -- ah
the rain, the wind-
flayed silver-

gray perfect
wild disarray of it, the

-- yes, the park, the place in it
where the other day, not having taken
his medication, old man Witt lunged
knife-first toward

two cops who, following
the rules of engagement, knew
that like a poem about
to culminate the time had come

to shoot
-- and now, days
later in
the parking lot, the chalked

body-outline and
the dried blood, both

washed clean
by rain.

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