Today's poem is by Leslie Williams
Furlough
On the nightstand the corpse of a pear,
a whole immobile March,he shudders awake each four a.m. black
as a whistle—the cold-sweat instantno hint of who he is—to go out
to the dovecote, throw birds to air, gonewith tuff and lift. The blue ache
a sky all for itself, as joy is.He feels how thin the lattice is
that holds him, fretwork of rotting palm.
Copyright © 2008 Leslie Williams All rights reserved
from Colorado Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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