Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
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Tagore Variations

I am like a jar whose mouth you turn
towards earth, spilling black grains.
Out walking the desert, each foot falls away
and falls back to its shadow—the sand speaks.

You make my body sing this evening
beside the burnt creosote.
The nighthawks of your hands loosen my throat.

Desert summer is endless—
even here, you pour
me out, making songs. Night steps down
between the pointed stars, never stopping.
Nothing fills. I am never full.  

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