Bison

I hold my dishes, sins,
dark briefcases, teas—
hue of old pennies or

horsehair sheen. All should be abandoned
to see bison. Bottle-
neck of pines and sunniness

like a calligraphed writ.
Take the green and yellow cadence
of leniency? Clemency?

Brown sacerdotal fur
over fifteen unseen ribs. I learn
to disrobe and desire more. Majestic

how they swim, hang their creature heads
to graze and browse. They
bow me.

First appeared in Plath Poetry Project