Wednesday, April 28, 2010

white-throated singfisher

“White-throated singfisher"


the storm air smells
like a sleeping creek
a bud cracks open
and leaks out the sun
like a broken egg
if you awaken the dew
the morning fog will file
off its fingertips and write
a poem about the pain
a soft swirling wave of shade
breaks into a curling clang
on the surface of a silver-skinned bay
it’s black wings failed, dipped,
tipped into a rain-stained race
of lusted legs and unloved limbs
dash, dark as a flash that came in last
crash, the lash of a cackling clothes rack
the rapid winds are menacingly mundane
they collect the collarbones from her frame
and toss them in a tightfisted tangle of sticks
as a placebo for their prescription bottle emptiness.


a golden blaze
sings of summer
in the careless linger
of doves in a ditch
the standing stench
left from open faces
smashing at sidewalk
the clatter of collisions
the sullen sun is shooting
starlings from a bare bow
they all fall down as arrows
the bleeding light burrows
burning in her auburn eyes
reds run rich like roseblood
all until innocence is undone
twitching sight, fleeing flight
the twisting touch of needle tip
patterns pricked in the ghost print
stitching the landscape with silence.

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