Rockport Heron Untitled

As a child there were so many free moments, my heart was full
to carry them, to load them up in my shirt like stones and take
them to the water where I would throw them absentmindedly
at the heads of fish. Now I lift my pants as the marsh becomes
a puddle, the marsh becomes a teardrop split on the point of my
being here. If I have an angel, she’s out on the moon throwing rocks
that never come down. It’s just me and the heron, both of us licked
to shame by wind, so too the water, our reflections make us fly away

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