Folded card work
If I have to, then let me be the whaler poet, / launcher of the knife, portioning off / the…
A nocturnal bird, say a nightjar,
/ cocking its head in the silence
/ of a few deflowering trees,
/ witnesses more than we do
/ the parallels.
Behind convolvulus and seeding grass
/ we park.
/ We see not one scuff or rip on the Strait
/ to show
/ two thousand years and more…