Sean F. Munro


she blurts
into the spanish moss, the lice in her hair
a lie to keep children from making wigs of it, she blurts
and the ibis and ducks scatter to the pond
squirrels spin the oaks and sparrows pin lines
of moss around her, she blurts
and the sparrows break the ground into dust,
the crows hop one branch higher,
and as she rolls over to face the sky
the oak ruins her with shade, she blurts
and the wind strikes the green leaves
turning the quiet to soft shattering glass,
the crows are gone, the tree alone, her alone,
she blurts and the water walks from the green pond
to teach her toes to hide from the wind, and the wind
comes from the pond to teach her body it will,
she blurts and a white cumulus sits in the green sky
then rolls over to the sun, she blurts from under the oak
and the people standing in the park look at her lying there
and they say to her nothing and roll over into their afternoons.
she blurts and bursts and the green park wilts to brown
the fauna rain to the ground shameless as hail, she blurts
and the dead birds and squirrels bounce once into the air
and rise the dust that lands on her dress, she blurts
and a brown-speckled sparrow egg hard-boils in its nest,
the people come back from their afternoons to the evening,
they poke her, she blurts,
the people faint, she stands,
comes to five out of her five senses,
and yawns at the gray night with black powdered lips.


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