Return Return

January robin, I want you to live more than I want you to stay and I want you to stay more than I want to live. Stipple your frost-fitted feet on the crunchsqueak of the cornsnow lit up with its own freezing. Your chest like morning-mouth blood on the pillow for reasons I’d rather not know. Cold-cramped wing fly you to Iowa for half-safety for these climes will climb to your beak. And all we hear from is heat and melt. Let that rumor your feather,               fling you far.

Jan 26, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Christopher Richards