Poetry and Poetics
~F. DANIEL RZICZNEK~
The day’s work waits beneath.
(Old, smoothed-down floorboards
or soil rich with worms.)
A pedal steel dies on the stereo
as you whisper: the irregularities
of teal flight, long dead dogs
huffing in the ice-bound reeds,
a litany of no-goods for a fine
suburban noon such as this.
The moon you cast is dark, the path
tumbling away into brush, into my
caught breath. The instant, opal glow
of a frozen buck’s predawn stare:
I’ve learned to labor by such light.
© by F. Daniel
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