← v4n2, Fall 2005
Poetry · Volume 4, Number 2

Ordinarily

I look at the carved Christ of Autun

whose hair has never moved

blankly judging souls without looking

and the pelican whose thumb feather

says hand and the demon capitals

the safe ones most satisfied and sated

in their fine cruelties

I do not go near them They are false

The grim set of a chisel made them

This is not a typical day

Ordinarily cicadas would wind up

I would be writing with feathers

or with reeds Ink would be soot and water

Cicadas would wind down

By midday I would be so historical

I would write birds are the carriers of content

and so says the blackbird

from the rushes flashing his scapulars