Saturday, April 9, 2011


The sky is black ink.
East of the cliff-muted
Sea, a hawk
Circles a field, as if

Tracing the contours
Of happiness. Within
Its circle, among patches

Of cypress, plovers
And gone—
Through drifts of
Ponderous fog.

Nothing disrupts
The silence:
Bird-flight, sea-mist,
A field gathering
Dew. Someone

In a window,
Too, the house

Otherwise empty,
The lights turned off,

Watches, waiting
For the world
To break.

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