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August 22, 2013 | Poetry

Probably Starlings

Chris Garson

Probably Starlings photo

 

They take a nap. Smoke
drifts the course of the basement
walls where certain members

of the insect kingdom
begin to realize an obvious
victory. They’ve not cared

for some time. This view
of the floorbeams—
not so promising,

if you must know. Not
looking so great.
The way things look

when it looks as if they are going
to give. (In time, I guess.)
Old coats hanging like doomed

ideas of their former selves.
Washer and dryer as hapless duo,
each crashing and beating the other

to shit, idiot tandem: all this
while standing in place.
Where are they supposed to go?

No Arctic expedition.
No mention of something fun,
like skydiving (for which

I am grateful). But then
I don’t know. I request a time
of reconsideration —

of what, I’m not sure.
This succession of days.
This door that won’t

shut all the way.
Those two birds that live
in the A/C housing, and don’t

even have the decency
to identify themselves.

image: Caleb Curtiss


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