A New Metre: Poetry Archive

“I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee . . .” —III John 1:13


Among the treetops,
scraps of red dart through the green.
I call your name,
and memory mocks me, psittacine.

Chirps and whistles
fill my ears, and tangle thoughts
in webs of flight,
so sounds of names are vainly sought.

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