Tuesday, November 12, 2019


        i.m. Ker Wells

Just say what you see, damn it, say it plain,
clear, show nothing, and forget expressing
emotion, you'll have better luck squeezing

a turd through your tympanum. Blue heron
on her stilts in the silt-scummed shallows
of the Clyde never concentrates, but she's

paying attention and knows what to do
at her wait's end, executed with bloodless
aplomb. You on your stilts in the tall grass

of the riverbank, cousin, you too knew
a thing or two about killing your darlings
and the world's aloof procession. The moon,

waxing full, casts a wake on the ripples
of the river. I can see you stilting
across it, wings akimbo, bound for the far shore.

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