Todd Swift
As Egg Collectors Fall From Trees
As egg collectors fall from trees
So poems collapse by degrees,
Stretching for ovals they don’t own.
From nest to roots they condescend
To blow the yolk of language down
So what might’ve flown finds an end,
No friend to feathered things at times,
Still hoping to find truth that climbs,
As words ab ovo will migrate
To soaring creatures whose rhymes mate
In lofty nooks where only fools
And rooks dare congregate, breaking
Rules that protect what’s rare from men.
The span of a wing, a longing pen.
Page(s) 349
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