Every For every bird that hovers in the air Then turns this way or that, towards or from, There is a driver slowing down for cheap gas And somebody who thinks another wrong. A wrapper scrapped by the hedge is aware Of nothing but brisk wind upon the grass, And hefted windows look upon a widescreen More pixelated than it seemed before. I ditch the touching clockhands hemming me-- My fibre optics pulse toward a sun That straddles ear to year, and taps the keen Hard starlit dirge at every atom’s core. What made the craggy rock, an ant, so free? Why marvel that the horses, rivers run?
Richard Carter is a dad and librarian from Ottawa, Canada. His poems have appeared in The Warwick Review and Garm Lu, as well as a small chapbook [Now, then (CLOUD, 1996)]. He lives in Toronto.