Friday, April 1, 2011


This wing
of morning creeps
across the nape of grass
onto the path with a piece of sun
that warms this small slice of cement
where I stand feeling its fingers of sweet breath
across the cheek of miles
as a minute winks past
ignoring my need
to hold it


old ladies still straight but dry
declining to dance with the air
the nests of spring are stuffed
with their gray hair