A Hawk Slowly Circles, Robert Joe Stout

Mark Terry, “Nymphaeus,” Sacred Vessel Series, 36 x 18 x 12,
wood-fired stoneware, Noble Hill Anagama



A Hawk Slowly Circles

the room
with the notes you left
on the table A check
made out to me
a pharmacy bill dated “3/3
—they called, said
it was paid” The address
of a man who picks up trash
No lipstick no strands
of hair no Kleenex
blotted with a kiss
My eyes withdraw
to watch
the leaves arrange
the window into flapping
fingers pointing
at my shadow twisting
as it rises
hawk with talons
clawing scraps of cloth
left from your sewing
proof I scream
of love

Robert Joe Stout


Review by A.S. Coomer

There seems to be a melancholy plangent sitting just between the lines. The mundane naming of things, the simple rhyme of e’s, culminate in this longing declaration of love, screaming love at that. There’s something playing just below the surface of this poem, a baby grand’s blue tinkling, I’m not sure I’ve completely caught on to just what, that moves me.


Scroll to Top