Small Bones of the Feet

Turning the corner

but it was long ago

the pen feels funny

turning the corner at the

end of the parking lot

where the water

abruptly ends or

starts a marshy

spot long-growing

green a few small herons

waking maybe a dream

of clouds of silver fish

fading as they begin the long

stalk and the poem just sort of

ends there though I wanted

to talk about childhood homes

and the deep wound

of contentment we carry

on our hunts

if we’re lucky but

wait do you

hear that new

bird calling


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