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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


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.

Published in Poems Tom Pickard

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