OK, a little more to like in this one, though I don’t think it’s in “Dirt Clod”‘s league.
The “change” Hudgins is addressing is, presumably, applicable to more than weather. He mixes the national/global/potentially cataclysmic with the mundane and the familiar:
The jackdaw chatters late, the chaffinch pipes at dawn,
and in a week the market sets record highs
and record lows.
and as the poem move on the ordinary becomes extraordinary, until it inches towards apocalypse:
Visions grow more frequent among believers,
and bees swirl near the hive, guarding their stores
against an unseen foe, while vodka prices
inch downward and the cost of razor wire skyrockets.
But the ending, strangely, loses force for me (despite the book’s backblurb, which says that “Andrew Hudgins concludes his poems better than just about anyone else writing today”) :
…the president preempts Saturday programming
and tells bored children his recurring dream,
bored because they too have dreamed repeatedly
of the steep roof, the book with unturnable pages.
The last line (which I have not reproduced) redeems him (and the reviewer) a little, but I could’ve done without the president and the children, to be frank. It’s telly, and it doesn’t move me. I don’t know what they’re doing (they remind me of the divine drunk) and it irritates me.