October 28, 2006

Photo of Crow

A gurgle ruffled from a morning
fog hunkered over the park, black
spruce float the sound higher
a sharp click and chuckle.

Lack of definition circles
the tallest evergreen, barks a tattoo
against the white air.

Myth a luminous absence—
the corrosive text, its toxic
sentence flowing out.

Poised here, an intersection of opportunity,
garbage, vantage, and disinterest, the possibility
of flight caught in a thick cracked beak and
a penultimate purple.

Poetry is dead, a photo
not taken, a scavenged plot
adapting itself to the wastelands.


hardyf said...

did u write that from out yr big livingroom window, rob? i can picture the crow yelling in those high trees fading in a rainbow backdrop.

Rob Budde said...

yup, though the crow was in a book lying face down on the coffee table.