The crow settles out of the grey-clouded sky
that frames a peaked shingled roof, its brick chimney capped with tile.
Wings beat a gentle twice, slowing, then lifting
so the feet spread a toe's width above the roof peak,
then settle as if there were no flight
the crow stands, and with a shudder shakes the muscles out
then scouts the street and neighbors with quick, full-headed glances all around.
Across the street a mockingbird sits atop the tile atop its chimney
cheater cheater churning turning into female-stopping
sweet jagged rhythms and piercing cluster chords that may even impress a crow
and certainly humiliate a poet trying awfully hard to learn his secret.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
And Wacky Am I
And now wacky am I, I thank you, mother, for the days I take no pill; the oak table that folds upon itself, a hinge, a turn, a hidden b...
-
Walked past, by your place today, in the neighborhood, you know, scouting poetry at a bum academic show of a score of miserable poets'...
-
Lock it up! There is no one more powerful than thee, For regardless how you exit or explain Unless you put lights out and lock up...
-
He looks back at me, reflects my order to stop smiling and not to stop because of him. He asks to try a frown, to look into his eyes, t...
No comments:
Post a Comment