TO THE GARTER SNAKEWho slips his rough uncolored skinamong the warm rocks in a wall, to 17-year cicadas, hulls of brazen voices in the locust trees, hollow, stiff and delicate as skeletons of leaves, or the flecked shell the wren conceals: What you know may peel me too, slick as a green flute, jade and bone, calling through a screen of willows, just this golden moon. From Air in the Air’s website; also in Spikenard Return to Index of Jeannette Barnes poems
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