Margaret Gibson
Naming It
A low sound. More clear when I do not
name it. Dove
the mind says anyway
Back-lit, bright against a blue so clear
it resists greed altogether
the clouds are a cobbled path
into the sun's burning
the stop-here of the cedars
into ash and stars
There it is again. And again
Owls, I murmur-the way I say
stars, drawn more
to the black chasm between them
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