I have grown down into feathers,
fat and waddling among willows.
My swimming is too busy; I watch,
learn to torque a neck, arch wings
in air. But with every paddle, swing
and glide, I am this self; swans fly
where there are no feathers,
trees, leaf or sky. I circle
the gate, construct fence posts,
hammer and beat them endlessly.
With every thought I intend a swan,
beg flight against the weight of stones.
Blowing Poets in America
Your words in my hands like body parts
stray fruit falls on the cover. My fingers,
wet with juice, flip page upon page;
stains on blank corners give voice
to seed: daughter, son and wife. I play
scales on the back staircase, tongue
dusty balustrades and navigate
geographies of your widowed stars.
Between rushed strophes, I lounge
and close my eyes. Blind Willie sings.
He sings us low; your words
in my mouth grow tumescent.
Somewhere on the river, tugs
pull a barge and a foghorn blows.
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