Debra Allbery

It is a small life.
Opening again morning’s
louvered box, compass points of dew,
mockingbird’s rote sampling
from the hemlock.

The dogs bowing and circling,
pawing the dust motes.

Resolve and remorse dress
in identical clothes, then are gone
before I smooth the quilts.
Like the old friend I’d embraced
in a dream — how he vanished
in my arms, collapsed
into dark folds of fabric.

There are lists, there are
replies. The same cupboard doors.

Walking the dogs after a storm,
I found a bird’s nest in the street.
A straw bowl, densely woven.
Nothing to rescue,
yet I carried it home.

Read more poetry from the Summer 2012 issue by downloading the free Amazon digest version of The Kenyon Review here.

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