POEM
Among Elks
Woke in the brume,
lilacs like turf stars.
The late fawn
standing in his syrups;
bucks down the swale
chewing sedge.
We move south
to slopes of sleeping poppy,
past the white alder,
bending heads to scent
of calx—in natural dark
a man tries his hand
at belonging. He
with greave of hide, a born
hood, lay with three
spikes in the clay, green
peak in the breeze.
He whose breathing
wrongs the still.
You stir now to mend,
to redress?
To be one of us, after all this?
Source: Poetry (November 2009).
This poem originally appeared in the November 2009 issue of Poetry.
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Joseph Spece received BA degrees in English and philosophy from Boston College in 2005 and . . . MORE »
