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james mcgonigal
Poet  •  Critic

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I Fail to Find the Hanged Man

Seen once in winter then forgotten,
frosty pilgrim between earth and sky
                                old sack on a branch:

owl’s wing
that broke in frost
in the sling of the wind you
moaned and grinned at the stars.

Or heavy under rain
slept.

In spring an old sack
that lurks among leaves
looks more like baggy trousers or a
tarpaulin jacket.

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