Stray Animals

This is the beauty of being alone
toward the end of summer:
a dozen stray animals asleep on the porch
in the shade of my feet,
and the smell of leaves burning
in another neighborhood.
It is late morning,
and my forehead is alive with shadows,
some bats rock back and forth
to the rhythm of my humming,
the mimosa flutters with bees.
This is a house of unwritten poems,
this is where I am unborn.

James Tate

Note: Sorry for the absence lately. I’ve been feeling a little art-dead. I’m in a reading rut, and it’s been hard to get inspired. But I’m trying to revive myself, and perhaps revive this newsletter too, change it up to include more than just poems? No promises though—my moods are fickle.