Michael H. Levin: Poems and Prose
BIRD GRIEF
(Finding a gannet washed up by Eel Pond)
From swirling fog
a sudden swan-size lump --
bright white and yellow
streaked by sand, wings snarled,
their sodden coal-black tips
crusted with silt. Gray eye
that scanned pelagic waves,
eaten by ants.
The voyager
who skimmed ice cliffs
and mangrove swamps
sprawls awkwardly;
as awkwardly as I extend --
retract -- a booted toe:
restrained by vague
primordial respect
or other visions
fallen from the skies
or knowledge
living beauty’s always
nullified,
I circle, formal
as Victorian mourners
in front-parlor guise
then take my leave
while gorgeous ruined plumage
on a dimming beach
begins to ruffle gently
as the tide comes in
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Version first published in Rat's Ass Review (Fall 2023)
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