Saturday, May 21, 2011

Ragged Scraps of a Draft of a Poem that Will Not End up Looking Like this Though All of it Might be in It


voices of birds
flight of voices of children
swimming



pulls itself up
buzzard from the side of the road
so slowly it seems walking



we wait
for something to happen—
a leaf rustles



clouds slip southward
I don’t know
why



the sun is low
so the stockade fence
appears around me


 
why these mockingbirds
spreading their tailfeathers
in the black locust?

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