For Bruce Smith
Puce, porous, rinsed by wind,
a branch smooth as the rubbed foot of St. Peter.
Clean spear of a skeleton.
Bridge of a Roman nose.
Cask of air.
When I walk into that croft,
the trees at my back like a reredos
carved by rain,
then the day could pour like ouzo
into my crystal thimble
a shot of air for friendship,
a bar of bleached light
for the necklace of stones
strung on the chalky ridges
a blackbird smearing the trees
for our daughters in the alizarin of day.
Then, a swallow could hook
its neck on a rafter,
a hawk mistake a lure
for God and Country
I wouldn’t know
my shot glass
a splintered flock of feathers
in the wind.
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