Because for a moment
the trees in the common
were immersed in a wind,

stirring some bird to fasten
its nest with a lost bobby pin
it lifted from the grass,

the widow below had to hold back
her daughter's hair so she could
drink from the fountain

where a hammered basin
multiplied the sky
and all the birds in it.

Ian Finch


The statue of the copper woman greens
without changing the meaning.

The man moving from tree to tree
is as scared of seeing as being seen.

When the hands get together they make
a shadowy bird crawling the wall.

The bombs are shaped like eggs.
The eggs offer up their creation.

From the middle of the ruined house,
a flight of stairs.

The shrapnel is melted and molded
into coins, fences, streetlights, statues.

Ian Finch

IAN FINCH recently returned to the U.S. from New Zealand where he was awarded a Fulbright fellowship in poetry, and is now working as a publications editor and graphic designer at the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh. His work has most recently appeared in Drunken Boat, Alba, and the Hogtown Creek Review.
The Adirondack Review