Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Hollows: A Poem

I read all day-
grazing from Zen to Rumi.
Hollowness in my gut,
the kind that eats
mushing space, time, light
into a smallness,
a density.
In the end,
a ski pole in each hand,
I stepped out into the winter field,
picking my way over cedar stumps
and frozen puddles of water
 in straight tire ruts.
I found a seat on a still-fragrant log,
and a crow-cry lifted my eyes:
 A near sky, hint of coming sunset,
black wings

like blurred musical notes on yellowing paper.


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