Tuesday 130: The reedy marsh

The reedy marsh



It’s full of robins.
A safety buoy gentle between
a breeze and wind—
some tribe must have a word for it—
and halfalive grass.

I guess this is what’s meant by
shoulder seasons.

Dogs trot powerful
warm as floor
(Threshold literally “to hold thresh”)
know nothing. Dead leaves

more than a season old & mud
unending mud
dirty and diabolical process of mud & rain
& rain will fall prosperous from the flat sky
like a black highway.

I wrote some of this poem in a little notebook while I was warming up for a race in Prospect Park, some of it on the Q train, and some of it on my back patio. I believe I was thinking about in-betweenness, and, because I can hear the voice of every writing teacher I ever had telling me that every poem is about in-betweenness, I was also thinking about whether William Blake was crazy.

I hope you all have a nice Monday. If you’re looking to read more poetry, the NYPL has a good-looking list of the 25 best new poetry books.