Thursday, April 21, 2016


by M.J. Iuppa

I doubt that Canada goose
wandering, then holding still
among the cornfield’s blind
of crushed stalks, is caught in
a moment of forgetfulness
or despair— the way it lifts
it head upwards, just above
the zigzag of the row’s ruin
to see what it’s missing,
(which might be everything
at this instant, who knows?)
it looks and looks without
 moving— yet I am, moving
without answers, thinking
about this— silly goose.

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