In Passing

blue logic in the movements of birds
thoughts that are scarce and fantastic

a smear of dirty mountain on the long horizon
a smell of bitter smoke, an early chill

from a peeling sky, a shameful and beautiful light
a bird that never tires of its call

shadow on the page, gradations of
and on the old and naked sycamore, tiny flowers break

robins run and stand, a sideways glance
the grass for thickness and for all directions

graceful breezes go on through
it's Tuesday, just below the turn

aware in passing of this body
sticks and breath and secret rivers
blue like ordinary end of day

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
Contents | Clouds & Green Police