Wednesday, December 7, 2016

Robert Verdon, #380, young crow

a young crow
plucked a golf ball from the air out on the
fairway by the hospital a mental patient
through the toilet window
into a hard garden
a broken hand
walked with a chaplain
in dried-wheat sun
on dust-and-ashes
sunday, to be
hanged in a
cat’s cradle of dead summers
the last summer
burning a hole in memory,
aping eternity
in endless lawns and lenses of the withering soul,
has impressed the palimpsest
like all the rest
the patient asks the crow, twisting by the
locked ward’s pitted white wall of echoes,


1 comment:

  1. You're on a roll, Robbie. This is great. (I read the poem several times, each time, I admit, missing the 'why' at the end. I was quite enjoying the sensation and I knew the question it inferred, so when I finally DID see the last word, it felt kind of surplus!)


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