Every day
a poem
pecks
a path
down
the page.
Often just
a hen or a crow--
sometimes a whole flock
of hens,
a whole murder
of crows and
now and then
when a comet
sprays the night,
or Mars
and Venus
cross in fuzzy
dislocating light,
a whole charm
of hummingbirds
dip down
to agitate
all this
empty space.
