Robins Embody the Holly

From crotched, zealous
emerald shields

comes this pealing, vernal throstle,
off-season in barbed hotel,

a chromic quire. Much is lost
on me, but loss is not.

Night’s tumbler, verdigris,
drops fast on day’s debris.

I swallow.
No surrogate for divinity, I know,

yet an earful of spring wine reams
grief: not mere mimicry. Not mine.


With sight aborted would I be
    you, bloodstone chamber
beside the lost-to-me river?

You be my business?
   Not these words that return you
only in dreams

exceptionally blue,
   you long ago stumped
in moonlight unforgiving

as the mirror that winks
   when I cross the milky way
of its bedroom eye, 

effaced as the stars,       
   the cars, bridge lights
across adult waters

the girl I was watched
  behind your animal torso,
pheasant blooded, jar-filled cellar,

age-veined palm absorbed,
   raised in ravaged opening,
an iris, a warning.


Have you a mind,
   musty sweater,
close-closeted, dusk scaled,

messages sealed with resin,
   your close-napped,
rachis of sorrow inflated

into fable, which is perhaps
   any body’s story to tell?
You be winter’s.

I’ll be all that breath
   it took to un-tell you
from the mute green branch.

Heron Madrigal

From pond’s blonde haunches
this blue deck-chair of a bird,
all canvas, struts, unfolds
& lifts above the adjacent lot,

as though the future might love us,
after all, despite our ungainly pride
& chop-block capacity for denial. 
Undulant, its shadow, cast, moves

over windshield, moon-roofs:
a hobbled crate, a sunburnt kite
my watching heart pumps harder
to propel, as though attempting

a pastoral, out of tune & time & synch.
Ink, paper, whispering extinct, extinct.