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Guest Poet Michael Feer


At the noon ...
in the high-time of
his shunning
west is to the left
there .... over there
a falcon-form slipped
by the moon
in an occulting way
west ..... well, wherever.
It swept the filth
from his day -
Of purest grace it
lifts for thermals
to prey at
in the pressure - low pressure
but nothing rises - it will
rain to wash
the air away.
The falcon will pass its time
blinking to wash its focus.
Beneath, blinking sand
from his eyes he giggled
through the one tongue
and the one nose and
the one eye that saw
and spoke not.
Saw the falcon carry his filth away
and he cried tears to both eyes
while he laughed, for only one
could make out such saline sadness
his half-the-moon madness.
The low-pressure sucked
air from his chest
pulled on his heart
to make it beat hollow.

April, 2001

Michael Feer's Questions:

Do the word's sounds and flow add or detract to the narrative meaning of the poem?

Is the poem too compact? Should it be more narrative/prosy?

Should there be more attention to the shunning than his feelings at this point?

Has the poem/shunning been shortchanged?

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