Chris Price


Fled is that music

All your sleeves

You are losing hold
        of your leaves; they

flake from you, wind-scaled
        and thankful.

After so much
        control, such falling

apart: memory’s short term
        then school’s out —

the birds disperse and wheel
        over alien corn.

A constant effort drains
        your sense. Just sometimes you’ll

overhear a loner singing
        on viewless wings, his small

melodious plot staked out
        from a bare branch in the ashfield.


Author’s Note


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