OSTRICH!

(IN THIS POEM YOU DON’T SEE WHAT’S COMING HENCE THE NAME)

Is life and life force so different

in all of us

that the mist from the trees

yet harvests the moon in a delta

true mesa of hard rock and lime?

What do the records say of the man

who was king here for more

than a day?

I want to be he who knows

when to stand and when

to run away through the wheat fields

and dew of many a blue day.

It isn’t the word of the satisfied man

that makes all the men of the manta

ray glue their tiny red oyster-clocks onto

the verge of the road.

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2020

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