Friday, January 24

you thumb its edge and grass gets grassier

The quick thrush cocks his head,
bunching his pectorals, halted.
Long holly shadows hone his shining claw;
you thumb its edge and grass gets grassier.
The tapered spire, at anchor in its ring
of tomb and cedar, has to quit ascending.
So you revolve in hearth-smoke’s occult graves,
banished by touch of frost beading the roofs.
What increase, could these ends outlast
perpetual waste.
Christopher Middleton, "Objects at Brampton Ash"

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