Sandhill crane
ONE HUNDRED POEMS
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The way light eats the horizon.
The way Japanese ghosts
Have no feet. Birds gather
In the trees. They say things
To each other that we can hear
But are unable to understand.
A glass reflects the rising
Of the moon. Reading secret
Messages in the pattern of leaves
Upon the ground. There were
Pieces of conversation stuck to
His teeth. A great cultus of
Admonition flourished around
Any mention of the present tense.
The rafters were draped
With banners showing the most
Intimate secrets of the verb.
Landscape is spoken of only
In regard to feelings. There is
No middle distance. It becomes
Inevitable that dense conversation
Cover the face of the moon,
That night untie itself
From any reason and reduce
All poetry to whispers which
Remind one of the wind.
One hundred poems are written
At exactly the same moment.
They are mistaken for oceans,
And fished and thought of great
Depth. One crosses them
Full of wonder, lingering as long
As possible to watch
The waves, the shadow
Flight of birds across
Their sweet surface.
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The way light eats the horizon.
The way Japanese ghosts
Have no feet. Birds gather
In the trees. They say things
To each other that we can hear
But are unable to understand.
A glass reflects the rising
Of the moon. Reading secret
Messages in the pattern of leaves
Upon the ground. There were
Pieces of conversation stuck to
His teeth. A great cultus of
Admonition flourished around
Any mention of the present tense.
The rafters were draped
With banners showing the most
Intimate secrets of the verb.
Landscape is spoken of only
In regard to feelings. There is
No middle distance. It becomes
Inevitable that dense conversation
Cover the face of the moon,
That night untie itself
From any reason and reduce
All poetry to whispers which
Remind one of the wind.
One hundred poems are written
At exactly the same moment.
They are mistaken for oceans,
And fished and thought of great
Depth. One crosses them
Full of wonder, lingering as long
As possible to watch
The waves, the shadow
Flight of birds across
Their sweet surface.
—Medusa
