Poem

[rowens]

A feathered silence
(Silence, what silence?)


You trolled your own poem. And for whose benefit? Does there need to be?

caught by the cup of your shoulder
and poured through the perforations
in my cradled hands,
At last finding rest under the couch
where we can find it come other time.

This is nonchalant calculation

A rhyme and a ripe Bartlett fruit
hardly remind me;
But something in their 
lofty sweetness
does--it's hard to deny.