Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Anne Walsh's 'Survival'


There is only one thing a poet writes about: survival.
Which is really of love existing beyond being unloved.

It’s the  longing of the striped way of an endangered species.
So rare street lights sputter blizzard instead of light

when light tries to speak her.

Cause it  has to be real light that speaks her,
the articulate un-language of snow,

language not hooded.
Cowled,  the street  longs for the forest he was.

Without her light.

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