Wednesday, April 17, 2019


Poems are ravens, not as Poe
Cast them, but as Clare
And Skaife conceived them,

The “dark, recording angels”
Of sunken recollections.
Imagine them gathering

In the quietest canyons
On a dry day, dullest grey,
Less steel and silver
Than lead and pewter,

Birds turning into shadows
With something to say.
Numbers never answer why
Every sin’s in the right place.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.