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Throat Singing

Next Time


As I was batting around the ball

of an idea, it turned into a bird --


unfolded -- the way I hope

a poem unfolds and startles me.


I'd like to be a bird next time.

Birds don't need to learn


to love the world. Gray sky

is a stone any bird can enter.


Or, I'll be a black-eyed seal

that breaks the surface, shiny


with news of its deeper life --

the way I hope to come back


as a poem that surfaces,

re-surfaces, keeps glistening.


                       originally in Poetry East




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