Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), April 2007. “Deep down the high brightness” is a conscious echo of a line from Hopkins’ “God’s Grandeur,” “there lives the dearest freshness deep down things.” Published in my books The Hardest Thing and Wings of the Gray Moon.
Not quite noon,
the earth still toppling away from night,
the dead middle of night
where the sun sits.
The dead housefinch in my driveway
hasn’t been disturbed by any violence,
even a death in midair.
Really, it looks like it walked there
and huddled asleep like a human,
a shoulder lifted a bit
to shade the glare of cracked mud,
its onedimensional feet flung limp
as if sleep finally couldn’t be fought.
I scrape it into a bag
and convey it to the dumpster
saying I’m Sorry to the empty world
and it fits and falls there,
this time it falls,
between a pizza delivery box
and the box a pump-up air mattress came in.
Another slit of harsh redbrown
deep down the high brightness.
I am thinking of peace.
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