by Jack Ridl
A few words from Genesis, some
Duke Ellington, just the middle of the week.
Out in the yard, the anonymous robin; in
the neighbor’s garden, a spray of poppies.
The configuration of nests: why mud, leaves,
string; why paper, sticks; why stones?
The lonely smell of a wet dog, the
way water stays in the world.
Your tongue, holding to the apple, tomato,
pear, letting go without your say
Across the street, the oat grass turning yellow.