Tuesday, November 1, 2011


You passed, a gray swan
at dawn's light. You passed
through wire branches and low, bending limbs.

You flew across
distance, wingspan
of our armlengths, hand to hand.

And for a moment, the wings broke
to either side, and I realized I mouthed
my own name, while looking for you in a sky
that was empty, save for the distant call of birds, and the subtle mist
that emerged from memories of you, moments tossing stones
into blindness, the constant
balancing attempts and rational violence, with no release
but a burst of wings.

There it flew, all of you
as everyday as a gray goose, no silver swan-necked, hovering bird
but there, your unloved, molted wings -- gray, yet true.

- - - - - -

What is the unnamed? The unreachable
peaks upon wings upon a broken wind; what speaks
through us, when a hole opens
and nothing replaces, fits.

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