Following the News by Lyman Grant

about another plane fallen
into an ocean far away,
one moment a dot
on someone’s radar,
a swerve, a mote
curved in virtual air,
and the next a void
filling television screens
worldwide, I sit on the porch
watching smooth arcs
of swallow flight, air space
sliced in violent precision,
beaks mudding a hidden nest,
as if attaching a fist-size
bomb inside the eave
of a luggage compartment.

Lyman Grant
Surprisingly, after starting to write poems in high school in a small Texas town four decades ago, I now find myself becoming an old man in another Texas town with a few small books of poems that a few people have purchased. The most recent book is Last Work: Meditation on the Final Paintings of Neal Adams.

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