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by Catherine Owen

by Catherine Owen

Writing a Sunset poem at Sunrise

 Chickadees on the tips of the gilded pine trees; a single

singing

robin;

the river all tulle.

 

The sun only vanishes as reflected in other things: furthest buildings,

a tug – the slow romance of its dirty cargo slipping

 

to the estuary, smokestacks blinding with what I can’t quite see;

 

the world, turning away from us all again, no, just turning

& night arrives in small

bits of

crows leaving –

over the water they vortex awhile, a higher current washing

 

through the city then, to some incomprehensible retreat:

we don’t even understand ourselves.