BY D. R. JAMES
Copyright is held by the author.
A frothed fog enshrouds the loud melodies
of these woods: pileateds’ sniggering,
the squawks and meows of crow and catbird.
Their row refracts through pluming detachment
from swing, lane, foothills, the world. Unperturbed,
bloused in this low-slung ceiling, by non-speed
I’m borne, desperate for nothing obscured here —
nor certifiable forgiveness, nor
angling prophecies, nor the typhooning
bouquets of some charlatan’s miseries.
