What is Submerged

November 22, 2010

The last shout growth
and fruition will have this year,

another dawn,
all jellied, all whiskey lids.

How they’re like ears today,
paused to listen,

as if it’s part of a progression,
half slave, half manumission.

For what is old and swollen, held
in kidney shaped hands,

protected from the sky,
a shadow all  through winter

—a late born pup, perhaps, part hound,
part something else—would  die.

Yes, Pops, I know. Would die.
Left behind the fences.

What gnat, what grapes,
what  a nice dog, set barking for

the breeze. What is submerged
and stolen from  us.

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