A Poet Reflects

A whole flock of waxwings occupied the holly, feasted on the berries, As as if a single brush stroke, the flock lifted, banked, settled in the Bradford pear, Only to rise, to retrace the curve back to the holly.                                                                               Rilke says, “Even forgetting Has a shape in the permanent realm of mutation.” Even, I wonder, the forgetting of the memory of having forgotten?
—Eric Pankey, from “Small Confessions” in Reliquaries (Ausable Press, 2005)

A whole flock of waxwings occupied the holly, feasted on the berries,
As as if a single brush stroke, the flock lifted, banked, settled in the Bradford pear,
Only to rise, to retrace the curve back to the holly.
                                                                              Rilke says, “Even forgetting
Has a shape in the permanent realm of mutation.”
Even, I wonder, the forgetting of the memory of having forgotten?

—Eric Pankey, from “Small Confessions” in Reliquaries (Ausable Press, 2005)

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