for Christopher Citro / with a phrase from Elizabeth Bishop


As though it will enhance the dark
powers of gas station coffee & return to me
my very youth, I eat
gas station coffee cake
            pinchful by

frenzied pinchful, adding tiny
souvenirs of glucose
to this well-loved Mazda
helmed by a poet who’s never
             seen a real live moose,

who sees the bright
moose crossing signs with their little
yet imposing, still mythic-looking beasts
not as a warning, no,
         as an advertisement

for enchantment, sweet
sensation of joy—I know, I know, the poet says,
they’re huge & can do real
deadly damage, but
          where are they?

We’re on our way to a poem-
making place. The name’s changed
& now it’s a retreat,
maybe a residency
    or sob. We’ve been on our way

for three hours & have met
not one hoof, zero
molecule of antler.
& it could be the coffee & the coffee
              cake talking, but

I can see it in his eyes: Come on,
just this once,
while I’m still on this planet, this
jumbled earth of jittery
       writers obsessed

with deer, small or somehow
big ass, c’mon, show me
the moose!
As though they’re the vision
           of eternity, visceral of

mystery he’s been
waiting for. His eyes demand
it. Every time that yellow diamond
flashes its dark-
     furred promise.