Reception. A Poem.

You said something

in trills of twisted tongue.

In mourns of couplet flown.

In hums of bristled passing.

In speech of poplars

sifting the wind.

I will listen.

I will look

on the red wing’s

staccato through the air.

I pray questions resolve

in the open mouths of lilies,

and the fields

never stop their breathing.

Comments

  1. Good one, Jerry.

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