Three Poems by Kevin McLellan


Here the birds are more
skittish. My dreams uneasy 
in the presence of vehicular
exclamations. This shiny city
teaches anonymity. I need
to unlearn how to excavate. 
No, dig. Out of the dark
I wake-up each day already
old. I no longer see the White
Mountains that oversee everything
early and late. (Suns. Echoes. 
All kinds of trespass.) The peaks
may not remember me
as a bird in a field in a valley.





At the bus stop
I watched a paramedic
pour bleach
onto the sidewalk:
the others take away
a bloodied man
and they called him
by his first name:
later at the pet store
a young clerk and
the fine linear scars
on her forearms:
she said, sick birds
tend to not act sick
because it makes them
appear vulnerable





Thank you for sending the sparrow
                   to remind me of space
and to encourage light.
                               I miss your singing
voices and consequently mornings. 
is now too much about myself. The cage
sits there.         Insists that I’m an animal. 
That I need to travel.