Blogging & Poems, My Poems

Then Again—

 

The low, chuffing calls of deer
in the bog are like a man

grinding his teeth, steadily into the face
of a megaphone. The call of birds.

A conversation, the garble. The suction
and pop of a leg pulling up

from the bog’s thick mouth. Upon close
examination, spiders look like scorpions

when climbing a fence. In the end, they
each have their legs.

In the end, the calls are all of these things—

an occurrence.

 

 

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