Edited by BLAS FALCONER | AMY WRIGHT
Several Mornings While Running the Dark Streets
I caught sight of the opossum, pale and visible,
moving along the hedges of the yard,
its strange light edging into me,
a sort of light in which I lost track of silence,
disgust mingling with beauty,
like the contortionist’s body, so beyond us
it’s nearly ugly,
my nerves sharpened--as if spirituals loomed in the treetops—
fueled by this spectrum, this old lumberer.
This morning, another run, well into light,
I flinch, the opossum too close, dead
by the sidewalk, the grass sweeping its snout,
fur rippling in this windy stillness.
Staggering, the air in our throats
down here where we exist,
ripe and brief on these homely streets.
The opossum, without its manner,
a beautiful aside.
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