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The Linnet's Wings

Things That Happen While You Watch by Tom Sheehan

A thin maple sprig

keeps bumping against

the package of night

closing like a fist

around it and refuses

to give in.

Loam, the rich nacre

of Earth, bottomland

in an axial thrust,

shoves against a mole

until the mole is


A grain of sand,

stretching itself,

drives the ocean

back, back, always

back, against the moon

and quahogs.

The green escalator

of a field, dizzily,

frantically late,

throws its goal line

toward my son’s feet

in bedlam.

In summer a Bartlett pear,

yellow and freckled ripe,

skins itself on the teeth

of an old man immobilizing

a park bench.

The Earth, trying

to get away, drives

its volume into my eyes.

The corneas explode

at impact.

The Linnets Wings