Flight Poem By Neal Bowers
The river slops under the bridge,
rubs the muddy turn of the bank
and glistens in sunlight,
straightaway and brilliant as a landing strip.
Call it a kind of redemption,
the way the simple light purifies,
though any dipped cup comes back so murky
no one could gag it down—
a failure of vision, let’s say,
too much common sense—
the rim just touching the lips.
A quick gulp would reveal
what the heron knows.
At such a thought,
the stomach jumps like a fish;
but already the sun has shifted,
and whatever winged thing lingered there
first published in Poetry, vol. CLXXII, no. 2, May 1998
also from Out of the South