My token attempt at imitating Denise Levertov

12.21.2002
I
Any fat robin will do
Any could feed him, hopping gracelessly in the grass
Any chickadee by the feeder would do
Provided he could catch two
Sparrows are no more than token food
For a hunter of his size and skill
As his desires drift like dandelion seeds on the windy day

II.
We are a city of clouds that rarely promise rain
We lay under blankets but do not sleep
Until we do not expect sleep
It seems all our weather men are false prophets
Meteorologists, if you prefer.
And every ology has its limits
Even the darkest cloud will promise just so much.

III.

Oil
Oil on water
What weighs on the heart
Rests lightly on what is clear
And, of course, you can see through it
What we need is so much simpler than what we want
Mixing oil and water
We stare at bubbles,
And the ghosts of our own desires
Phantoms of oil on water

And here's another poem I wrote the same day, much shorter. It's not quite really a poem, more an aphorism loaded with famous literary allusions.

12.21.2002
we are trapped by our own metaphors
the rosy –fingered dawn
an ever blooming rose
a grand inquisitor
a guard at the door