the two birds in the bush
the priapic pouf and poot
Category: poems
July 5, 2017 3
washed blue to grey to rose sky
soft to cool feathers of air
still twilight
July 5, 2017 2
cardinal cries cries cries
ice cream truck
da da da de ta
leaves shimmy
July 5, 2017
I’d rather be
a bird in the bush
than
two in the hand.
Synecdoches: ii Morning Glory
The unknowing beast drips into the white I
that floats in the morning-glory blue of you;
he is an orange instant, a fleeting part,
quickly lost in the variegated whole,
the minute, vast flows of shades and tints of love,
the inhaling, pause, the exhaling, of breaths.
Synecdoches: iii The Orchid
The beast dreams of his hour of steel, but it’s you,
the orchid, who, with your indigo edge, parts
his tweeting orange moment. The silent whole
curves through your tender petals into the love
cutting deep as a newborn’s first crying breath
slicing time into glints of the flying I.
Synecdoches: i The Mouse
The moment the beast drops off, a fourfold breath
—in, pause, out, pause—composes the fleeting I
before he awakes and tweets again to you;
stuck in himself, he misses how the air parts
to allow a mouse to flash into the whole,
wafting a change in climate, a whiff of love
new year’s day 2017
in the new year’s cold
the sunlight angles towards warmth
i lean into you
dust
we are all
are puffs of
dust to dust
dust 