Red Winged Blackbird

Red Wing BlackbirdRed Winged Blackbird

The sixth of January,
the cat and I rose
early near the lithesome body
of a grief-sung man,
basket of slits, thatch
withered, softwood
thatch unfinished, nothing
in his body is formed
or growing old.

I know a face that’s leaving,
nothing else in his restraint,
nothing else here–only his face
that’s wooden–mumbling
about streets getting back,
that’s gone. He gave
a cough, sat up, breathed
a pill – a suffer– a word of omen
that these hands may yet seem
to lay, to foot in the bush
of tears, lying about in a white
coarse linen and sleeping
under an old house,
black awning–roof

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