I hit a wall on hawk poems. I had to stop publishing them.... I just wish there was something else a hawk could do in a poem.
Of course it has wings, but they're faded as old towels in the laundry, thumping around like a windup metronome just a few clicks from gone. We've talked about this. Money's tight but besides, haven't you grown fond of the thuds as you would a three-legged cat, that familiar pity that makes us feel at home? Do you pity the machine, as if, to wax cliche, the rusted combine abandoned in a field? Birds certainly don't. They fly about, drop number twos on our objets d'art and squeal like ill-behaved children, which is to say all children, the very reason we don't want any, maybe blasphemy to some but we've settled quite comfortably into these conversations. We can't keep throwing out good bread, as much as we like a distraction. They accumulate on the roof, the domestic kinds: sparrows, blackbirds, blue jays, crows. The hawks were chased out of town by white flight developments and you, so informed, mourn them as icebreakers with new neighbors who, like me, don't feed idealism. Too many times I've been the glass panel or fruit stand in a B-movie chase scene, acute case of wrong place, wrong time, though not shattered or bowled over by some wood faced, one trick pony, but soiled on by so many poets' inspiration, the raison d'etre of ratty clothes I'd otherwise throw out, though I'll admit their nostalgia, when we first drew our lines of communication, awkward, yes, but small victories were significant in our campaign. I'll keep washing whatever collects or cakes on and they'll gray and soften like tissue, but even when the color's gone and the words are aphasic flecks still hanging on despite the eventuality, we'll remember those days and our purposeful philosophies, wonder, smirking, how we ever said such things.
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|Date:||Sep 22, 2012|
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