Standing at the Bay
Window Holding a Basket
of Unfolded Laundry
It’s trickery, the leaf folded in
such a fashion as to make me
think for an instant, for longer,
that it is a cedar waxwing.
This
dead lilac leaf in this morning
light. In less than
five minutes
it will be just a leaf
curled like an upright hand
whose thumb has drawn itself
up to its cousins in its attempt
to be a perfect buddhist:
Buddhist in the minute—
isn’t that the angle we’re peaking
out from, standing at our window
with the sun behind us,
on a morning when it all just
continues to rise? Even the dead
are made
to look lifelike—made and made
and made to look like
life.
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