The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wednesday, April 7, 2021

Adults

The sea lies in its bed wet and naked

in the dark. Half a moon glimmers on it 

as though someone had come through

a door with a light behind. The woman thinks

of how they lived in the neighborhood

for years while she belonged to other men.

He moves toward her knowing he is about to

spoil the way they didn't know each other.


--Jack Gilbert

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