Roger Reeves, Fog Harder

Each bulb became an empty school. Little
Wood thrush—something very far from this ash tray

And my mother’s fingers worrying sorrow—
Perhaps, you—alone as a bowl—have watched

A child fall from a nest, wonder if, in the flush and falling,
Fall harder, fence post bear the body of what I could not.

Have you ever pushed? Have you ever wanted to?
Don’t answer that. The school room empty.

The last of the children holding glass bulbs of wonder
In their hands, running to the edge of the roof. Thrush,

Have you ever taken a pill that keeps you
From calling to each child jumping into the fog?

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