Some Swan Headless Moves Into the Sun


by Catherine Blauvelt



Between brussels,

       shoved little moor from above.


My rocket was aimless, the insanity

of rosemary reaching

usual things

with sound, the sound of tents. Enormous

Flowers sound swan body shadows.




We happen

below the sun, if there


aren’t thousands guttered,

                         circling above,


soon to hear the black and dalmatian,

soon to leave one eye for rolling, say a way

now close in thunder. This vent


                                 high sky patterns

 in fits, flower prints,

private gardens wanting forever on a hill.