In the still cold, freshwater-crisp
dusk, oaks push a birth of leaflets.

Out too late, past the park’s hours
watching the thrusted rockets of song sparrows

spear the roughage with their bodies’
brown crud. The quiet is packed with lust.

Shit-thick scraps are being gathered
for the homemaking: last Autumn’s

trampled tawny, wire bread bag ties, selvage
of moldy straw they will whirl into

cradles. Heron-tense, evening fishes
for the original star. Wing shiver and cheeping

rev down in the undergrowth, where a bridle
path unravels through breezy lung-scalding chill:

voice of April fiddling at the pan-pipe cattails, luring me out
with her moodswing charms, her reddened fingers.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , by A. Miller. Bookmark the permalink.

About A. Miller

ALEX MILLER JR. is a staff writer for The Curator and the co-author of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems written in dialogue with Luke Irwin. His essays and poems have appeared in The Conversation, Transpositions, Pif, The Curator, The Denver Syntax, Lake Effect, and ken*again. He is an adjunct professor of Western literature at Gordon College in Wenham, Mass., and high school English and Rhetoric teacher. He lives in Beverly, Mass. You can follow him on Twitter: @miller_jr.

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