Poem of a dead father (poems from old notebooks, November 2009)

Poem of a dead father

He might want to write a poem about a bird
in flight in the gray scrawl
of late November early evening rain
slanted across streets
like light grown old, stiff, and heavy.

He might want to write a poem about
a bird in the rain, wings crosshatched
and shaded with water; so wet that
each wingbeat is an ink-dark smear on air
where a beak traces the shapes of grief.

But in the rain at twilight a grey bird flies
above a warehouse of old red brick
sketched against clouds where
the rising moon hides, holds back
its gray light from a stoneless November
grave between weeping birches.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Autumn, Death, Funeral, John MacKenzie, Poem tweets, Poems from old notebooks, Poetry, The Rain and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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