Until I Swept

I went looking for another
Poem for you. I searched everywhere:
In the tang of marshes open
To the sea; in the billowing
Clouds spread across a winter sky;
In the neck of a blue heron,
Curved, questioning water. I searched,

And found nothing until I swept,
Finally, under the bed.
There the dust I drew towards me
Became stacks of fine linen sheets.
I tried and could not estimate
Their thread counts—woven as they were
With your hair over many nights.

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, Art is theft, Blue Heron, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, Marsh, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Sonnet, The Sea, The Sky and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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