Rosalind Kaliden’s most recent poem to appear here was “April Morning, 2016” (August 2019).

Randomness
By Rosalind Kaliden

Outside my window
the last of autumn’s sumac leaves
stick to the branch’s crown,
like the red tail feathers
of the eponymous hawk
diving toward a mole.

Two thin-skinned grapes,
bridged by an inch of rinse water
in a shallow bowl,
are remnants of his morning’s proffering.

The stinkbug clings to the outdoor screen.
His angle creates an artificial image:
Inside, he climbs up the linen lampshade.
The body always seeks heat.

On the floor next to my bed,
my cork slides lie side by side
within my blind toe’s reach.