The Names of Birds : PoemsBook - 2011
From the critics
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It’s my job, though, / in a loud world. To be quiet. / Friend to the smallest song.
God bless gravity though, / the way it throws us all a curve / on the round earth, / and puts spring in the poem.
Yet if we want to know what sky is, / or home, we have to look up, / and don’t we have to put a bird in it.
it’s a stone, especially one of those / smooth, black ones / you hold to your ear / from a cold running creek . . . It’s the operator / inside, telling you, go ahead, / you’re connected.
_Habitat, decline, endangered species, / extinct_, don’t mean a thing, /do they, unless someone’s / bulldozing / your house?
It’s not beauty though, but failure / I most connect with. Like the feathered / equivalent of the little engine that could . . .
Bird watching / is the color of hope. Like writing poetry, / you have to believe in what’s not there / until it is.
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