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.



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