My Injured Falcon

There are voices, distinct:
how can I possibly trust

my sanity when every word
is yours? Come near me

speckled, sparkling like
blankets of snow on a radiant

night; winter's jewels spread
out like a party. Follow me

and my great crippled heart,
my sad, broken mare, my injured

falcon. There is a cliff, smooth
as tar, eaten away by salt and wind.

Here we'll sit awhile and listen,
maybe you can touch me. The body

remembers a bodies touch, releases,
regains it, releases, regains it.

At some point love feeds upon itself
and is left with nothing but the stars.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Sad and beautiful.

I recall being concerned, many years ago, that I was writing a lot of sad stuff (I still thought I had to please others by having only approved emotions!) - and a wonderful poet and editor I knew said, 'There's nothing wrong with that. Sorrow can be beautiful.' In your case that is certainly so! And if there must be sorrow, as it seems there must in life, then making something beautiful from it is surely a good thing to do ... for many reasons.