Parading

It is late morning,

This is a house of unwritten poems,
and my forehead is alive with shadows,
and my forehead is alive with shadows,
some bats rock back and forth
some bats rock back and forth
to the rhythm of my humming,
to the rhythm of my humming,
the mimosa flutters with bees.
the mimosa flutters with bees.
This is a house of unwritten poems,
This is a house of unwritten poems,
this is where I am unborn. —James Tate
this is where I am unborn.
—James Tate

atoms

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