Thursday, August 6, 2009

March 30, 2009

The swallows that spin like
ashes down this long
green valley are brave and do
not need my weak poetry
to sustain them.

They are instead just
the weightless product of some
avian fire, burning crows by the murder.

And my poetry is no more wind to them
than they are breath to me,
my featherless lungs still waiting.

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