Classic Poem

The scraps, bright, all of them,
these small birds, as if torn from the sun
now bloody-mouthed, then a broken
line moving closer, brant — no,
blue geese, and in synapses all round
swamp-sparrows, as blades of light
push in till the last one takes over
so masks drop from stones and
on the headland windowpanes
are morning swollen and a wave curves
like gravel along the long bay
where no hull moves so it all starts
to look a little contrived, as if the boats
had gone out to sea on cue, and hidden.
Here you find yourself shattered at a thousand points,
flashing like crabs, a leg here, a claw
there, and eyes everywhere.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 185, no. 5, Feb. 2005. Used with permission.