My hand remembers stroking a sleek bird years ago,
one which was crouching under my fingers,
longing for the sky roof on top of the cabin roof,
the forgiveness high in the air.
As for me, I have given so many hours to the ecstasy of detail,
the shadow of the closing door,
the final syllable of that poem which is already gone,
looking back over its shoulder.
Well, well... sometimes in our slow hours a child climbs down into this world.
~ Robert Bly
from Reaching Out to the World -
New & Selected Prose Poems
New & Selected Prose Poems
