Monday, February 26, 2007


a habitat threshed with willows
where a hawk spooled slow
and the yellow disc hovered
as if almost a half-moon
eye over winter-water
switching to where bird-caged
your fingers and your red
hair and how I'd forgotten
until the white bars emerged
composed by marsh grass
and the light was as the light
you reined around you
in the bone-blue of summer
that blue scarf and how
I noticed the bird-call slipped
against the silver coins
as I realized how very long
your hair had grown
since we left

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is this real?