[wpaudio url=”/audio/winter10/walsh.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
 
Outside, in it, my tongue
is that painted bird escaping the wall clock.
I’m abducting raindrops to fill my soft palate
the way cigarettes would.
Everywhere is some place gray today.
Even Des Moines, even Bangor.
That big timpani throbs, and I
Tap brown bare feet to it.