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Brooklyn Breech

For A.D. O’Brien



Silent surgeon you

who, cool as an eel, sleeps wrapped

from crown to heel

in your inverted patchwork.


Your mother, my friend, keens to you:

To everything – turn, turn, turn.

Beyond her thudding heart you hear

the vacuum roar and your

own stable metronome.



Those blushing Prospect white oaks

know how to hold.

Summers drowsy in the Long Meadow –

yellow wine, warm as plasma,

in a plastic cup.

Little minnow

we don’t ask for much.


You, in your turn,

whistle through stone

like a saw-whet owl

not yet shucked from its egg.



A half-turn away, I wake

in the dark to the voice

of my daughter asking for a golden


You, little footling, are still

a dark promise.

Her pleading is as urgent as

the yearning of

seed heads yet to rise.




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