July 2012: Guardian

Humid. Clouds bleed orangey-red
I look to a bent tree and wait.

Quiet punctuations rise from heather.
White spots clap above body– a male
glides to bent trees and bent lands

at the lip of our universe,
I have seen this same male perch

Large tell-tale black eyes, that white moustache
Goat Sucker, xylophone of Charon, you call
ku-ick twice and launch sky pale as clay

Found Poetry

Rob Yarman


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