World Hypothesis

The geese again.
Each call is a rent
in the rouse it have
felt. Each soiled thing
ratchets it back until
it bland with the hinge
or begin to hear,
clairvoyant. Now the absent
martyr, it go netted when
it go, and guilt is its
inhibitor. Words lamb
like little kings, killed
for their thrones. It feel
then the drop calculate
in it, it feel the shadow
level for flight. The geese
frond, models to the eye,
missing the world by
a margin. The sky wipes
itself clean, it feel genes
in it calculate, a hammer
fall, it feel itself
treading water.

Copyright © 2008 Jennifer Militello All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission