Nine Short Poems 


Mornings after rain, the pools on the sidewalk
shimmer. Some days are perfect for walking, other

days, I know the knives are close behind.



Deer rip the flame licked sunflowers from their stalks
and eat them whole.             Once, I watched a pale tomato worm

burrow into the plump red fruit.



When the water is cloudy, the swimmers
think twice.                Sometimes, when I’m not watching

the plecostomus comes out of hiding.



How did I fail to realize the heads on Easter Island were simple bodies
buried to the neck?               At the Gentleman’s Green

no one turns the sprinklers off when it rains.



At noon – I have perfected the art of nervous laughter, climbing
out of someone else’s           swimming pool,

dripping and searching for a towel.



I watch the blue heron glide over the pond, I watch the night heron
shift on its branch.

I watch the cars go by on the road.



Nights when summer reaches its most terrible heat
the beads of sweat on the air conditioner start                to evaporate, the machine

groans and threatens to evict me.



In my dream, all the bodies in the world made one
body.               A fierce, five-headed body

splashed with paint and fire.



Van Morrison sings Tupelo Honey in 1971 and I’m hearing it
decades later             over wall mounted speakers in a coffee shop.

It’s common now, to see hawks drifting over the road.

David Hornibrook is a Pushcart Prize recipient and MFA candidate in the Helen Zell Writer’s Program at the University of Michigan.



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