by Jack Hanson
The heron flew by the hedgerow.
Imagine its flight and its colors.
Those petty entanglements died
as the wind does, and the bird,
as the wind does, flew on, though down
in a quite different register.
My life has been one of going.
Out, down, around several issues
of not much importance. If not
filled with small fruits, then in their midst.
What I mean is I can insult
when my downward gaze is registered.
There are things I have not told you.
Things I should I have said. Forgive.
Down is where I’ve been looking and
going, neglecting all the facts.
It was not a heron that flew.
It was a peregrine, prepared to kill.
About the Author:
Jack Hanson is a graduate student at Yale University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the PN Review, The New Criterion, The Scofield, and elsewhere. He is the author of the chapbook, Monica Moody and Other Poems (Pen and Anvil, 2017).