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

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

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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