Poem for a.rawlings

By | 31 July 2012

I do not find myself
in shop windows
or the bottom
of a martini glass
but in the slick
mouth of rivers —
the unpolished face
of a wave flecked with foam
before it curls and breaks.

Something of me comes back
in the hunting arc of a Letter-
winged Kite —
the rush to perfection
of a mullet school
escaping the dark
history of carnivores.

When I cast a flattened stone
into the endless blue
it is something to wish upon
and the clouds breaking
tell me where I am —

found in the pull of current
and matching shimmer
of avian eye
no longer fearful
able to sip from its presence —
fall into sky.


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