a breeze of rowan lifts
pale curtains of cloud
where hawks stake a claim
to a drifter’s sky
the lick of jigging water
over rock
takes thought with it
and every it it is
it
and us outside it
I outside us
and us it
inside of I
and out
or hung
tail slick as a pack of cards
scuffing gushes
over lush mist
that skulk cloughs
while swift streams
skim speech
from streets of the sea
from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library
Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.