Robert Ilson


It's summer still goddammit - or almost:

Should there not have been room for him here yet?

He had a thumb and finger fit to host

The pen he used to dig and prune and get

Syntax from silence, "the music of what happens"

That birds sing close to as he managed to.

He built from blackberries, shards, old stories, sins

A relevant Composite, tough though damaged, too.

He told the Composite to walk: it walked.

He told the Composite to think: it thought.

He told the Composite to speak: it talked,

And made me, mourning, understand I ought,

Whether they're with us long or quickly go,

To feed the birds in winter even so.


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