Why I Write in My Diary Every Day
I falter a patch of birds and spill
their song. I prickle the daylilies
with homilies and hurrahs. Nice pleats,
I say to the scarecrow, ruptured
drag queen of our pastoral snows.
My old oaten pipe is rotten now,
my pollen fallen into sickly weeds.
Poor weeds and thistles, witty
with bees. Sometimes I think
important somethings in the field.
Sometimes I nothing into wood-
land and dark my way around.
The scatterbirds are picking teams
now: over there against over there.
I am in the middle, here,
doing middle things. And
the clouds look like rabbits
with bad dreams.
| Gregory Lawless |
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