More Poetry

bright the summer burns away
the birds hurry in
a flush of
feathers
she says
do you see
their breasts
how red now &
he looks into the folds
of her skin & sees his secret
turn an eye as if the horizon hung
just in that first glimpse of a nestling
a mouth as white as the sun screaming
the fields to their rows the break to the glass

© 2010 Richard Lance Williams March 14 the summer burns

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