Gathering Myself

—Eric Rawson

The day growing colder under

A thin layer of winter sky

 

A little blue

With the crows

Bragging immensely in the trees

 

The evening spits up the moon

Like a wet seed

 

I come home

With my fishing rod and two perch

Wrapped in newspaper

I’m thirsty

But I can wait

 

The ivy is still green

And dark in the dusk

Like some creature’s fur

Fringing the branches and the pole

 

The old hermit gleams in my eyes

For a minute

Greedy and cold

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