|
Raising the Dead Jon Ballard
It's Christmas Day but I count Seven birds dead on the west And north sides of the house. Impacts are still discernible on the big Windows, as if the smudges Of children's mischievous palms- Yet these are the blots of headlong death. Broom and dustpan, I raise the dead Over the hedge into the lot next Door, the weeds and grasses Consuming the clump of grey-green Feathers like an earthen furnace. |
Return to Spring 2007 Table of Contents