In the Lay of the Land

The landscape has a sharp and jagged slope,

and I stand on the high ground; I defer

to you to best slip from the noose from rope

you give a man. (I can not envy her.)

But when I saw the gander flock to you,

and her, and her, and peck, and flap, and squawk,

and I balled up a page of verse and threw

it in your lap, and shrugged, and turned to walk…

At times, it’s feel a pang or grow a fang,

a glance rocked aft to turn my heart to salt,

the fearful expectation of a “bang!”

or gorges cleaving at the seismic fault.

The birds, as well, believe in poetry.

I honk, and flail, and raise my neck to thee.