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  • John Muro

The Black Cap

by John Muro

The profound sadness

and abbreviated burst

of sorrow still haunt

and hobble me. Seems

a resigned address,

a lost soul wanting

or a sweeter misery

unknown to thrush.

It is the anxious

rise and quick descent

that captures the ear,

an augury that seems

to hold the moment

in gentle harness

and then drifts clear

of the season’s promise.

Hard not to hear

the loud lament

or slush in pitch;

sustains a seamless,

wind-born moment,

ushered from a clear

note that stitches

hope to grieving.

And yet, I wish

for no other sound

than this, or place –

the brief requiem

and redeeming grace

that falls to ground

in sweet anguish –

both arriving and leaving.

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