Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Twenty-eight
Spring 2012
The birds
Dawn Pendergast

knit these grey inarticulate scarves. You have to see them in big pieces. Rub your eyes. You have to touch the wool until it buzzes. With your own blood. Hunker down. While leaves fall leaves cake the fields with brass. Beat it. Sleep on the ropes of no, sleep plucked. From one sleep comes another inanimal stillness. In the hilt of night, doves appear in jagged grey sentences—moves. You have to look them up after all, beat them. Be driven thru on ramshackle horsepower. A waul of wind throws the trees backward. Ask what next, nested, puckers on the limbs. Exalt all these particles indiscriminately, shake the whole earth: arch lip, roll cloud, strike.

About Dawn Pendergast

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