Roy Herndon Smith

To catch you in the act, the fact, of reading—
to catch me in the act, the fact, of writing—
naked time in this promiscuous meeting—
naked space in flagrante delicto—wing
it, in the long crying, in the dark lifting,
the birds’ sudden red clamor interrupting

the long lucent dream of not interrupting—
chittering away—fey, not-yet day, reading—
to-wheet, tweet, tweet—wake, listen—leaping, lifting
grey-blue, rosy-fingered, Homer’s not-writing,
dawn’s—o say can you see—to-wheet—on the wing—
early baying of rosy rose light meeting

the blues way beyond the bluesy blue meeting—
where oh where has my little interrupting—
come, warble, come—word gone? Come back home, world—wing
it, wing it—twining, untwining time—reading
first light, flying night—friable cry—writing,
singing line in my-your mind sighing, lifting

light—dark flecks flitting, fleeting—flying, lifting
words, up in silent sky—sighing in meeting,
breathing, between lips, tongues flicking, we writing
each other writing, crying, interrupting,
rambunctious bursting your-my mouth-mind reading—
a kiss is God whispering to the void, Wing

it, wake it, write it, read it, cleave it, bring, wing
it back home to your mama now, be, lifting
you-me up, as a little child, we reading
melancholy matter, sweet tearing, meeting
the birds and the bees and the interrupting
sycamore trees patchy with white light writing

where the breeze comes sweeping down the leaves writing,
catching, space in trembling time—we’re on the wing,
eternal way to losing, interrupting
dawn, dusk, day, night, broken circling, light lifting,
falling apart, coming together, meeting,
catching each other sleeping, waking, reading,

writing, in still light after the loud lifting
of dawn, in each stretched, flexed wing, feathers meeting,
feeling, interrupting wind—here be reading.