But For The Pheasant
But for the pheasant’s coppered wing the fieldsin sculpted snows ne’er bring the promised yieldsnor pleasures found ‘til light does crest the riseat dawn and ambers claw upon the eyes.…
Poetry by Devon Brock
But for the pheasant’s coppered wing the fieldsin sculpted snows ne’er bring the promised yieldsnor pleasures found ‘til light does crest the riseat dawn and ambers claw upon the eyes.…
It is not the sapling or bit snowthat scrapes the window, coaxing,Come out little boy, come out –Come out where the sting wind blowsCome out where the wind plays a…
The orange slim line of the chopper overheadMeans only one thing here – certainty.Certainty that northeast of where I standIs a near departure,Perhaps wedged behind a wheel.I will count the…
Come all ye winter brigands,Strip these tainted fairland woodsOf their baubles and wares.Take what plump fruits remainIn glistened fists and bind,Bind the spruce tightly –Such prideful beasts these trees. Come…
Whiteout on 250,shallow shouldered,deep ditched,straight as dopeand piped icing.The wind knows the waybut canters,canters and dragsthis crate south,south into the beamsof some some othersad fuck bent to the clockand near…
In this winter called Leviathan,gorged be the meddles of menlurched there, rustbound in iceand enzyme. And all that arcs over, whetherthe crust limbed trees, or the whitetresses of sleet pinged…
Weathermen are pushing the storm. Nobody noteworthy died today. Eight to twelve on the Twins. Havoc on the plains and cancellations pending. No travel advised. The schools flaked out before…
Come winter the woods will forget my boots, Expunge my passage, deny me familiar, As if I never traveled there, climbed there The oaks, as low birches lurch among The…