Another Sound Your Voice Can Make

Fire in the
The trap laid last weekend
I agreed I would look at
And then the brown leaves

Within earshot it
Whose animal thought
A pile of round
You may be drawn to

Whosever this is
Pain in the laboring
Picked up by the wind it
What they're always saying

The procession extends
Wild hiding in holes
Perfectly healthy
I cannot ever think of

Poem originally appeared in jubilat 22. Reprinted with the permission of the author. All rights reserved.