American Muse: Neal Bowers



The world has caves and crevices enough
for everything that lurks just at the edge
of vision, thin and quick as mist
or ponderous with fur and lumbering
into the matted shadow of the woods.

By following, we learn how little we
possess the land we own, how willfully
it holds onto its secrets, opening
a door for its familiars, closing out
unwelcome strangers breathless in pursuit.

When finally a way is forced for us,
a passage hacked into the stubborn clay,
it is an antechamber with no larger room,
no welcome home in the unyielding ground.


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