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September 13, 2019 Poetry

The Worshipping Beast

Brian Clifton

The Worshipping Beast photo


All that whimpers isn’t want.

One spring, I pulled
a reed from an oboe.
I planted it by a pond. 
Instantly, it grew 

dense at the water’s edge. 
The wind told lie after lie—

black cricket like a jewel,
black motion of a goose’s 

vibrating neck. I parted 
the reeds but nothing
was there. I was steeped 
in evening’s almosts—

a symphony in a cup of water.
 

image: Dorothy Chan


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