Bob Hicok (1960 - / Michigan)
A bee in the field. The house on the mountain
reveals itself to have been there through summer.
It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass
in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke
above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned
of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse
but a woman doing the stations of the cross
with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house
as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman
eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself
like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman
but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals.
The everything has moved, it's not everything
but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage
of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.
Poet Other Poems
- A Private Public Space
- A Shopkeeper’s Story
- After Working Sixty Hours Again for What...
- An Old Story
- Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence
- By Their Works
- Calling Him Back from Layoff
- Dropping The Euphemism
- Feeling The Draft
- For Three Whose Reflex was Yes
- Full Flight
- Go Greyhound
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.