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Poetry

Four Birds

It became your rosary:
that battered mouthful of stale speeches; what was out of sight
along the river, hidden behind strings of trees marked
for the woodcutter’s pile. A wrapped blanket, fallow,
at the edge of the field in winter.

There are things worth conceding:
A litany wrung from chewed cloth.
A cause abandoned at sundown.
Four birds, dead, along the side of the road.

As our eyes widened we learned that place was a matter of understanding.

Oh, you four birds,
you end-of-the-day,
where is it that I can place my hand upon your heartbeat?

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Discussion

2 thoughts on “Four Birds

  1. lovely thoughts.
    😉

    Posted by Jingle | August 5, 2010, 5:31 pm
  2. Keep writing! Please!

    Posted by Emily | August 6, 2010, 10:54 am

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