Something Of Occupation Poem by Michael C. Peterson

Something of occupation, something about
withdrawal. The lecturer said
that when the bevy wings or lands together—
near-arpeggio—
whether there's music attached at all, if it
goes, where it goes to go undone,
whether there's agreement to flight-from—
the question's wrong.
To die, an emergency. To die by emergency.
A form of this is beauty.
Like blossom. More like shouting from one
end of a lake to another.
Like beating on the lake's tin surface. Beauty
partly heard is its emergency.
You should know. What our voices called for?
The house like a boat et cetera.
This is what we wanted back. Sea-flake shaken
from her bruised frame:
Blossom-in-a-wind, Terror-which-we-wing-upon.