Standing and Pacing
I prop my head on a tuft of grass growing
At the base of a fence post.
Notice the nails pull from the wood
In weather that’s wet or cool
And leave the cross beams dangling and warped.
In the evening a small bird flies back
And forth, stuck in the loft.
Swallows dip in and out without
Nests of hay-straws, regurgitating
And fostering the young.
Inside is refuge and the trap.
Look here, and divine with your only pair of eyes,
Urim and thummim of the gentiles.
You will know it well if you live nearby.
Look here, the small bird tucks and dives
Out the window, under the crossbeam
Into the pines.