remembering Angry Hawk
his book of poems
soft in my hands
carefully folded and sewn
in his newfound hermitage
haunted by coyote carcass
rotting on lake ice
he stirs coals
in rusty woodstove
his old man’s pipe
and gives to the earth
poems
like smoke rings
which most cannot
see through
but rather see only
the sky where
they rise and rise
hawks soaring
Jonas Lamb 