Abstractive
I came upon that gate
that tracery’d gently into open
there lay the sum of the dearest
once belonging, the memoried
that scattered, then, compilingly
length’,d into the poor pale
no place to bring one’s birth
this hill they let run down
among them where the scant
droops to astray with dearth’d
the one and one,
a four, or ten even and seldom’d
wisp’d across listened into grass
there where only
as a grey amount
coming on with swerve
solemns afar whole family
again
my dear ones
Credit
From World’d Too Much: The Selected Poetry of Russell Atkins, edited by Kevin Prufer and Robert E. McDonough © 2019 by Russell Atkins.
Date Published
01/01/2019