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Poetry

Little monotony, crow come to my window,
why start my day with your cracked, raucous notes?
You know the kind of music you profess
unasked for works its way into my bones,
shakes me as only thunderheads’ bleak rain
unsettles me, insisting on a correspondence.

I have to reach far down into my distances,
my prairies and miasmas and savannah’s heats,
my polar icecaps, my short infinities,
to answer when my answer always cracks—

Little one, why remind me of my stars
I pulled down so this morning could be lit
however imperfectly and blindly but still lit
|by the glistening, wet starlight stippling the grass?


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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