Nulla Dies Sine Linea
On my birthday
A crow guffaws, dirty man throwing the punch of his
one joke. And now, nearer, a murder
answers, chortling from the pale hill's brow.
From under my lashes' wings they stretch
clawed feet. There the unflappable years
perch and stare. When I squint, when I
grin, my new old face nearly hops
off my old new face. Considering what's flown,
what might yet fly, I lean my chin
on the palm where my half-cashed fortune lies.
V. Penelope Pelizzon
Poetry April 2012
Copyright © 2012 by V. Penelope Pelizzon
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission