March 30, 2009

Of a Feather

Straighten the birds;
the jumble of sparks in my head
shuffle and arc without piety.
Never mind medicine or war.
There are other problems,
signs of trouble, sharp turns
in the middle of the pull and tug.
The blood of montage
comes to ruin our tongue.
Still, it will tell you the same:
You never know about poets.


The Wholesome Satyr said...

In a few hours you will owe April ( and yourself ) five poems - unless you are writing and not posting.

Agnes said...

My computer is in the shop. Disconcerting, it is.
I'm lost, a flea without its dog.

e said...


We've heard others but this,
by far the best one not to blog!