6 Poems
No Translation. Our neighborhood flock of geese
creaks home to their pond at dawn. Their Tibetan
clamor leaves me iceberg still, a poem catching
in my throat, something like the one that blew off
the top of Emily’s head. Shiver of a Yes opening
and closing on clouds, the bird’s straight neck a
plunging exclamation mark. Argue about trope or
measure as you will, about breath or turn of the
line. You can’t comman d the fit or will the heart
to latch onto that slow flap. Through a window
you follow a dark ballet, then spend all morning
translating wings onto a page.
