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.
"Poetry recall literally affects dozens"
2 comments:
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.
yup, though the crow was in a book lying face down on the coffee table.
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