Thursday, November 24, 2005

After camping

Rock Paper Scissors

Rock paper scissors, if I could sing:
crack of frost cleaving slate, fractured
down a talus slope.

Paper scissors rock, if I could sing:
rustle of spent Sunday papers gently
pawed by a white cat.

Scissors paper rock, if I could sing:
zip of ribbons curled against the edge
of a dull blade.

(I’d steal the mockingbirds’ songs to sing
one pretty and feral enough for you.)

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