Naming It

Margaret Gibson

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

Selected from The Artful Dodge 40/41.