“Head Injury” Sonnet
Maurice Oliver

Years pass like hastily scanned
bar codes. Whole branches hidden
by leaves. A scream or a shriek.
Wings fluttering above the roof.
One bushel of Alaskan berries.
Dry cedar & glacier water.
A collar phone that beeps.
Twigs just the right size for
a pigeon’s nest. Cellophane
wrappings on a power line.
A gang of cops or pushcart
of kids. Sledgehammers against
cement. A voice molding language
like clay. Lopsided sand castles.
A garbage lid blown by the wind.
Treadmills of alpine scenery.
Then, nowhere to be except ten
square kilometers & you could
even learn to like that limited
space, given enough time.

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