“Why?”
A question. A simple word.
Drawn out disbelief in the stale air, cradled by your absence.
One lingering syllable left on my tongue,
remaining denial, reaching out, grasping for you.
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Fickle humans with our love
Condemning nature from above
We sit beneath such beauteous trees
Yet they cannot begin to please
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I met miss blackbird in june,
her dun dress feathered across her sepia nest
and her bleak eyes set in ochre fixtures,
staring black through me, through the hollowed fronds
of the sambucus tree,
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Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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Dreamy converse, easily lost, even the stars
one day will disperse. Love for this life will drop like lead
as the inferiority of the material rears its ugly head.
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The enamel fairy arises from its catacombic
Sleep; puckered and embalmed, like
A maggot, wiled by metamorphosis and dilated
By rainfall.
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