Saturday, August 15, 2009

Wonder of Birds

If I could address your accusation that I lie.

If it is possible
to touch the hour, the burr, that whole up-
ended half-decade we spent wondering about each other—
you slumped on your kitchen floor arms crossed arguments
stockpiled. Will we thieve or be brave?

Today, mid-February where the wind is full of snow
that will not fall, brown leaves
curled against the blanched grass,
I suspect there are no gardens in you.
You suspect I am brimming with vast shadows,
the way the mud and sky are brimming with snow.

Winds chafe the maples and somewhere
an animal huddles under woodland trash.

Will it be now, or later?

Will it be now?

Will it be now, or later?

Will it be now?

Will the moon burn over the tree-line

Will the arteries clutch

Will the brain in its shock-worn pockets smooth itself down

Being small, as we are, and negligible

Scarcely entitled to a name, such as beloved

Not known to exist except as beloved

As you were, uncertain now what you are

Will the brick houses withstand the rest of winter

Will the wood houses

Will the men be warm enough at night

The women

Will each find his way to another, and be housed, and be free from harm

Will the man who sleeps under the plastic tarp under the bridge be free from harm

The families in the trailers

Will the bills ever ease

Will the tensions ease, slacken, and come to seem unimportant

Will you ever come to seem unimportant

Uncertain now who you are—

And when will this trance end?

Shapes night-wheeling in the breeze

Spurs of bone a patch of trees

Wind-washed and moon-fretted

A night composed of nothing

A herd of deer browsing on lichen

Train-horn pulling through the dark


Killed in the wind farms

Tangled in the cell phone towers

The birds

The birds

The seed-heads loosening

The seed-heads loosening in bright-and-dull dawn.

-Joanna Klink