Two Poems

The Little Acts

The moon tried

to stay in place while

the earth circled it.

My refuge is false.

The doctor winked

that bodies heal.

What strange

muttering. Is it

merely practice

at harvesting our own attention?

Levitate from your bed.

Regard doorways

as croquet hoops.

This Island

This island of days is not on my map. On Sunday,

I can still hear the sea clashing with the rocks.

I walk to the opposite shore. More violence.

Endless ocean as I rotate, or as the world does.

With sun on my back, I wait in reprieve,

saying this island is peninsula to everything left behind.

Pigeons flock through power lines, juking

with greed and grace, or is it panic and guile,

a flight of beauty to minimize the take

of a hawk hovering above them, ready to drop

and kill.

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LAWRENCE BRIDGES is a poet whose poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. Poetry volumes include Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood.