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Something for John Clare

Spiderwort, the begs-

to-be-said: Fat of the summer,

off at the crack of the fat

of the bat. A pair of grosbeaks

feed in a hackberry tree

so lost in it all they have

a sort of kundalini air.

Orioles prefer the goatsbeard.

We watch the slow horses trail

the way Baudelaire, a Frenchman

who followed you through,

watched the clouds: a file

of chestnuts and flashy bays plod

across a meadow, drift?

it seems like hours, head to tail

past a clutter of fallen cottonwoods,

disappear up a cool box elder draw.

Then we watch the clouds.

from UndanceableFind more by Merrill Gilfillan at the library

Copyright © 2005 Merrill Gilfillan
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Merrill Gilfillan Poems

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