Poems November 2014
The Shallow End
Not what I
Am used to
Thinking of
As life—and
More fragile—
Up from the
Riverbed, it
Trails braided
Fishing lines
From its body—
Seeing me,
It bursts away
Among trees.
My body
Quickens in
Front of my
Mind—I sit
Quiet, docked
To the ring
Of hills
Glaring—
Up from below,
Down from
Above—at me.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 3, on page 25
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