Tuesday, March 25, 2014

ENDGAME

Drifting up-
ward,
as if purposefully 

prompted—
by a brief stout sun-
eclipsing cloud,

my thick eyes 
began
at once to scan the wintry morning

sky—and soon were
fixed upon
a lean but clearly 

large and far-off sparrowhawk.

Swiftly turning 
such 
fiercely economical 

and dead-
silent 
circles on the cornerless wind,

they struck me—each

of my cousin's 
steady
fastidious maneuvers— 

as, like my own, completely rational 
and beautiful
manipulations of 

a given environment—but very

unlike the poem
I had
in my mind

already 
begun 
the task of compiling—performed 

without any regard 
and
completely outside 

of whatever 
eventual—
unconscionable goal.

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