The birds are gone. Soil
blooded to rustfruit, eyebright,
a vast intention heavy in the mackerel
grass, on the silent-screaming wire,
the concrete sky, the sun that slow bomb.
You are half my living now
the coming word, the deep and
bastard mind, making each darkness
felt, each day ordinal.
Every thrust of mine You met. God, that seeds the hydrogen, seed me.
Aubade
Nam Le
Feature Date
- August 16, 2018
Series
Selected By
Share This Poem
Print This Poem
Copyright © 2018 by Nam Le
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
Forum 6 – What Nature
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Editors-in-Chief: Deborah Chasman, Joshua Cohen
Managing Editor: Adam McGee
Senior Editor: Chloe Fox
Poetry Editors: Timothy Donnelly, B. K. Fischer, Stephania Heim
Forum is a publication of Boston Review, an independent and nonprofit public space for robust discussion of ideas and culture. Animated by hope and committed to equality, we believe in the power of collective reasoning and imagination to create a more just world. We invite you to join the conversation.
Poetry Daily Depends on You
With your support, we make reading the best contemporary poetry a treasured daily experience. Consider a contribution today.
