My Apologies
The ducks of this weather
are stony. By afternoon
the lake disappears
like swans on the wing.
Someone kind
left apples and pecans
for winter’s varied thrush
and the orange of his belly
alarms me.
Finally I have allowed myself
solitude, only to find
it does not suit me.
I watch birds with ruffed
feathers and recall the white
of my thighs when
we made love by the river.
Of course I miss you.
Isn’t that my body
remembering my body?
As always, so beautiful. I love how the mentioning of specific birds really grounds these, gives them weight, proves them real. Which sometimes I feel like is my problem; nothing solid, concrete, stamps of reality. But perhaps just more scattered. The ease with which you name them makes them real, visible. Which knot with feelings, transmitted, written, just as real. And the endings of your poems always hit so hard, the lingering question (in this case), and the rhythm meted out by lines. These are really perfect.
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