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From a dead fox in a suburban backyard

Do not forget

to address your letter to the absences,

your questions concerning the sky


and the mountain’s destination as it disappears

along with the blue songs

that nest in your nights.


And will I continue to nurse

the silvery nerve of the earth

conducting the first and last


syllable of your name?

To find the silences in there

is to glimpse the falcon in flight


only a few know how to follow

as it collects every angle of emptiness

in order to pull out of its dive


while in an instant, the voice of your infant

gone. Your own breath

broken at both ends.


Algorithm, this suturing and tearing.

Do not bury me in a world of less and less.

Wind and sun will wash me


will dissolve the last scent of milk,

will scatter us into the voices of others.






© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved. This poem first appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Vol.14 No.1, Spring, 2008

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