Poems That Fail

Some poems start as the piece of road
that, stone by stone, inherits the ghost
of one that crumbled underneath
the dandelions ages ago.
But then it moves to the steady cows
by the roadside and the gray pond
with a reflection of some
invisible hawk skating across
its smooth, windless skin.
Maybe by now you want to know
what happened to the dandelions
and where the old road with the ghost led.
Well, the dandelions grow
by the cow pond in the field by
the side of the new road. Dandelions
are growing over the sidewalk outside.
And the new road with the old ghost–
which isn’t hosting a ghost at all, but is
simply allowing you to let it
represent the “ghost” of the old road–
doesn’t go anywhere that would make
you think of the old road at all.
By now you may not trust this poem.
Something vital is missing from it.
Why the pond and the bird at all?
And why can’t you see the bird in the sky?
And what is that hanging from his talons?