MAY/JUNE 2006
Furniture of the World
Seeing birds flush, you fall to your knees.
You couldn't eat a hazel grouse for what
you make of it: the soft berth of your own
great reliable outcome. Configured, yourself,
out of the quiet blood of beasts, you could be
conducted on a little cord held by a child.
Suddenly, you have the mildness of a giraffe
with its discrete, unrequited interest in other animals.
—Kathy Nilsson
About the Author
Kathy Nilsson's poems have been published in Ploughshares, Post Road, Volt, and elsewhere. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
