Blue-winged Warbler
By Carl Phillips
Photo by Bernard Hermant via Unsplash
They say that deep in the interstices
where dream and waking dream and what, between the two, I’ve
called a life, each crossing the other,
seem a nest of swords, flashless, as from long neglect,
there’s a meadow’s-worth left, still, of the aftergrass
that grows in sweeter once the first hay-crop’s been cut down, just
believe in it hard enough,
everything’s findable, even now, they say (parallel, ascending), but
that’s not true; not true.