paint chips slowly.
It’s so still you
can almost hear it
pull from a porch.
Cold grass claws
like fingers in a
wolf moon. A man
stands in corn bristles
listening, watching
as if something
could grow from
putting a dead child
in the ground
*****
SEPTEMBER 26, 1996
this morning the pond
looks like marble. Rose
and charcoal dissolving
to dove, to guava, rouge.
Only mallards pushing
holes in the glass, so
unlike the pond, deep in
trees, almost camouflaged,
startling as coming upon
your reflection in a mirror,
just there under trees and
the wooden bar and the
driftwood benches blackly
jade with pines dripping
into it, shadows close to
my hair. What I didn’t have
blinded me so I hardly saw
the small birds, blue,
pulling out of moss and
needles as if reaching into
the dark for their color
~ Lyn Lifshin is one of the most widely-published poets in America. You can find her at her website.
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