No room for a bird that sings
through her dangling foot.
Thus, always leaving
the loss of middle-earth:
things given birth
then quickly reified:
something rising in a corner
swelling and lifting its cover -
not bread left to it's own.
A swan's wake, more shimmering
than her plumage - not a monk's glosses.
A field burned for grazing -
The long goodbye.
Always counting on some hollow ilex --
a kenning, a beggar,
a toddler with one eye
up to his knees in water and lye; expectant,
big-hearted, and lost - to take us across.
Copyright © 2004 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved.
Published in The American Poetry Journal, Winter/Spring 2005.