Crushed Birds: A Poem for Jack Gilbert


There are parts of me that shouldn’t Tweet.
Not the part that loves lemons, or the part that hears
Lament in subway wheels, but the green patch
That believes a gesture is alive.

I can’t agree a poem is like a throw to warm
Your night, or a punchline to break social ice;
I put my ear to the stanza as if it was
A massive oak door.

One response to “Crushed Birds: A Poem for Jack Gilbert”

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