[wpaudio url=”/audio/june13/Murray.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
Not song, but stick legs, chopsticks
poking surface tension as wings,
arranged just so, pluck waters to
create circles underlining circles.
I am alone, the osprey is alone.
By the time the ripples arrive,
diminished, cypresses shake.
Trout argue about property,
laugh in the dark corners, by weighted
depths defined by how cold they are;
shaken water, bitten by a thousand
larvae swimming upside down.
At dawn, when this crowd of lonely authors
look sidelong into the same indigo expanse,
when fog loses pace and dies before touching
the bank, which voice will cry out first?