Goodyear, "Quail"

What the heart, unsteady and ill,
is supposed to do.
And does: fly in missing-man formation,
resettle too nearby,
then scatter to confuse,
fleeing like one who secretly wants catching.
Hides to die. But doesn’t come to nothing:
ends a block of bony, vesselled ice
heaving, frostbit, in the chest.


Dana Goodyear

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