Robert Frost Yells Out the Door
to Emily Dickinson as She Runs
into the Woods with a Bag Full of Clothes
John Bonanni

Roll stones down on your head!
Now shadows in the tomb.

I'm done forever with potato crops
I missed mine, how dreary marbles,

I have been treading on leaves all day until I am autumn-tired.
Think of it, lover! I and thee

You make me ask if I would go to time
For pang of jealousy.

I never should again be warmed,
With eyes in death still begging raised,

Or so much as uncross my feet,
A dim capacity for wings

Or better on dish plates all around the room,
The forest of the dead.

But since we got nowhere,
Menacing the tree,

'Twas human of You. I expected more
Gush after gush, reserved for you;

And to intensify the drama
The forests galloped till they fell,

Men work alone, their lots plowed far apart,
Then prate about "preferment"

Why did You hurt me so? I am reduced
To lash the magic creature

Last night your watchdog barked all night,
The bolt upon the door,

Wind goes from farm to farm in wave on wave,
Death doubts it, argues from the ground.

Your last good avalanche
Must thrust the tears away.

To end it. And if so
Two worlds, like audiences, disperse

One in a cavern where you used to cook.

1996 © 2012