#poem #poetry #amwriting 27


Crows hang heavy on the hill light dusk,
lung-tarred they call against the night

encroaching craw. And bite, down
the grassing path, speckle dotted

daisies peek, angled from the tired track
of downward toiling trek. It is then

you see the circled crash of fox:
breaking, startled, and back

into the unfern crisped dry brush;
and you stand; still. You taller then, spotting

the cowered yellow ears, snarled in weighing fight.
The invisibility of reality plainly sees

the ermine in the fur of waiting grass, but not
that snare that holds your gaze, and its.

Of what is too clear. A tunneled tube
to hold all time, and the very air
of inhaled worlds and gone.