Untitled (“What a day this is…”)

(“What a day this is…”)

What a day this is
The clouds striding across the sky like lions upon a plain
The long manes of the hills rising all along their backs
For God’s sake–Friends I have
And in the swordlike swish of an eyelash
The widest, deepest silks are irredeemable
And individual voices flapping on the wind
I am the milkweed pod, scraped hollow,
Or that which has its home there
Peering from a boat at mooring in the air
To see the silk umbrellas tire and furl
Or tip to tip blow through the middle distances
But those that ever found their way to me
Were doves teetering on a new cote’s edge
Who, having sheathed themselves
Spun out determinate as thistledown
And forced back as much emptiness with their wings
Twirled far, and left to see
Nothing but a pair of trees
Talking into the curve of their branches
Strolling beside the path and going somewhere

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