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More poems from

Before it's LIGHT

FEEDING DUCKS, GREY NOVEMBER

no swath of light,
no smell of warm
wood shavings. A
rain coming scent.
Last leaf in wind.
Walnuts on the deck
bleeding ebony. I
Think of houses in
ice where there is
no light, of men
carving snow birds,
seals, caribou,
dream llams as geese
fly up, a cloud of
feathers skidding to
the corn that floats
on the skin of water
the color of light



THE BIRDS LIKE A RADIO ON ALL NIGHT

There, in the dark.
You can't touch
what's closer than
the sheets but a

presence wraps you
deeper. It was after
12 when their wings
and honks stirred

the lake. A skid
of webs, flutter
in black silence.
The moon revealed

nothing. I shut the
light off, floated
under blankets like
eel grass, the radio

low, waiting for their
cries like a woman
listening for a child
in the next room

 

 



IN THE RIPPLED EBONY COVE

Temperatures falling.
Moon slivers on the
rolling skin of water.
Geese in half light,
armada in feathers.
Wind blows them closer.
One silver band glows.
Their onyx, black flame
in a night fire



GEESE AT MIDNIGHT -- ( in real audio!)

as if a feather
quilt exploded,
a white you can't
see in the dark
but breathe, a
wind of white
rose petals,
wave of fog
in the shape of
flying things.
Like radio
voices on
the pillow,
lulling, keeping
what's ragged
and tears at
bay, the geese
pull sky and stars
in through glass
are like arms
coming back
as sound

 

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