Diaspora

 

A dozen still that I might forget.
Morning inventory in a light, cold sweat.

The birds don’t leave feathers, but take the bread
and bicker on the fence in a light vignette.

The phone rings twice, then reconsiders.
My day trepanned, my night forfeit.

Chevron tail, gray murder.
The dive of the kite unmet.

There was a girl and a recipe for rice pudding,
and I on the shoulders of a white sextet.

The annuals sag in the heat of August.
The roses refuse the blight. Not yet.

The train is always closer in the dark.
It is a rhythmic thief, and the night cornet.

Sarah died of dysentery, three miles
from the Platte. I am the cartwright’s regret.


 

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