#poem #poetry #amwriting francis harvey

francis harvey

this stone
   more dense than diamond
   smooth as a bird's egg
   cold in my palm
      like a forearmed sheet beneath the pillow in summer

this stone
I hold indecisive
between the dismissive toss for the common-place
   and the pocket

that stone whet
   knew that I would hear the call of birds
   and taste the butter
and laugh at the off-hand description
   of apple orchards and vetch
of relatives proud in country manner
   whom strut like thrushes bullying a sparrow
coated in russian bearskin - three-quarter length -
   to accent the sweet perfume
      of a mother's beauty - to a child

    and the glottal stopped
       faux pas of judging others by their vowels
for the words that were not said
and the bridges burned before crossing
   for the sake of failure

knows that thread from which we hung
- the threads of half-drowned hair dragged from a river
  that later would get merry on cider
- or perry - or gin - or love -
or the chancing sunlight on a handsome face
   to form the swan's heart of desire
      more fabled and more real - than us

The Blue Book

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