“Put your trust in the inexhaustible nature of the murmur.” Breton


From the repeat bloomers, then, believing

their need was understood—expressed in coming

back, back again, arched upright, scented, red

against the trellis,


and from the bee throbbing its thorax against wet

siding outside my studio before the sun

touches it. Sex? Or prelude to? Either way

it pulses, thrusts, stops.


Staghorn sumac, for another, here today, about

to be dust, ditto the wild motherwort,

seed-brown, falling over, finished for the year—

runnel, rivulet, rill of a lost voice.


It came, too, from the hydrangea Quick Fire,

falling forward on its long canes, tipping

conical blooms that were green, ivory,

then blush with coppery hues.


The murmur which barely concealed the silver

of knife blades, fine metallic slashing, scraping,

sharpening, whetting, stone

finally crying out enough, enough.


Photo By: Jim, the Photographer 


About Author

Patricia Clark is Poet-in-Residence and Professor in the Department of Writing at Grand Valley State University. Author of four volumes of poetry, Patricia’s latest book is Sunday Rising. Her work has been featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, also appearing in The Atlantic, Gettysburg Review, Poetry, Slate, and Stand. She is also the author of a chapbook, Given the Trees, in the Voices from the American Land series. Patricia has had writing residencies at The MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Arts, Ragdale, and the Tyrone Guthrie Center in Annaghmakerrig, Ireland.

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