Poems June 2012
The spigot
Over wire fences I climbed
where the snow melts last
and stashed cut flowers behind
a dogwood hung up with buds.
With a stick I beat the grass.
A pump-spigot, between the house
and a hewn barn, spat mud
then water at last over my blood.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 30 Number 10, on page 30
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