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On the footfalls' side.

The last time we were with him his footfalls were in the grass. He has remained in the grass for such a duration that even the gods got curious, and once in awhile while departing for lamps of their own they have stopped at his, the lamp which belongs to him in the grass for he has hidden there near the house's lamp for ten years, eleven years. A long time. His father is a bird, hard of hearing. And yet he tells his father he knows he is more than a bird who is just hard of hearing. But there are long silences, all from the house. On the footfalls' side of the glass there's a clapping for someone's dog, the moon is quietly a joke, --it is hobbled down into a fatter shape than usual, maybe it is the branches, the clouds, but it sure looks like a fat moon. The dog has not responded. The father has not responded. Perhaps he has not heard his son. It would make sense. It would make sense if he flew away. But he alights from no branch, if he tips his beak it is to tip his beak inside of himself, where no one else can be seen. Or heard. Only himself. Wondering how in the world his son has stood here in the grass all these years, attracted all these gods, and none of them, not his son nor these gods, seems to be headed for anywhere, anything.
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Author:Burkard, Michael
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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