Tuesday, October 5, 2021

Little Errand by Brian Teare

Little Errand

I gather the rain
in both noun
& verb. The way
the river banks
its flood, floods
its banks, quiver’s
grammar I carry
noiseless, easy
over my shoulder.
To aim is—I think
of his mouth.
Wet ripe apple’s
scent : sugar,
leather. To aim
is a shaft tipped
with adamant. Angle,
grasp, aim is a way
to hope to take
what’s struck in hand,
mouth. At the river
flood so lately laid
down damage by,
geese sleep, heads
turned under wings
wind tests tremor
in like archery’s
physics shifts
energy, potential
to kinetic : flight—
but not yet :
this grammar’s time
to string a bow, draw
taut the air, send rain
from quiver to verb
to aim to pierce
the scent of such red
flesh. Hope’s arrow’s
anatomy : thin,
feather’s fletching
trembling, it
crests to end
in brightness.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.