The Wedge
By Alex Miller Jr. Posted in Poetry on January 12, 2017 0 Comments 1 min read
American Painting in the 1930s: The Age of Anxiety Previous SONNET Next

And in the marshy field that drinks some of
this river, legs muffed in shifting steam,
pale geese negotiate and wrangle, preen
and complain, beaks the black of a leather glove
and gauntlets already thrown down in rage.
The territory, contested mates, the page
of the pecking order struck out and reprinted.
Their foghorns sound a newly-minted
leader’s coronation, then the lot
are off again in an elegant V
that constantly shuffles its hierarchy,
which navigates the bitter winds though the squawk
of contention keeps clamoring on and on.
Make them our republic’s emblem, its callsign.


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