A jet of mere phantom Is a brook, as the land around Turns rocky and hollow. Those airplane sounds Are the drowning of bicyclists. Leaping, a bridesmaid leaps. You asked for my autobiography. Imagine the greeny clicking sound Of hummingbirds in a dry wood, And there you’d have it. Other birds Pour over the walls now. I'd never suspected: every day, Although the nation is done for, I find new flowers.
From A Thief of Strings, Copyright © 2007 by Donald Revell. Reprinted with permission of Alice James Books.