Mayfly
Once I was a tiny pearl
on a rock adorned by many,
in a watery chest—
until I broke free, unfurled
my many legs and scuttled
towards one mouthful
of algae after another,
days and months passing
like the shadow of a fish
searching for a nymph.
I don’t know what compelled me
to crawl up this plant stalk
and feel unfiltered sunlight bath
my carapace like warmest water,
or how I knew to let go, my claws
unhooked from their green mooring,
new sails splayed out and catching air,
then beating—frantically beating—
lifting me up into the swarming mass
of life, surrounded by thousands
flying in a torrent of instinct,
unable to call with unworkable mouths
but still we hear each other, the vibrations
of wings forming currents, the grasp of limbs
around my torso, the connection, pulse—
and then the cloud of mayflies collapses
like a heavy sigh, I feel myself spent
and leaving my last messages
to spread among the reeds and rocks,
the fresh new world already gone cold.
Which Bird?
If I were a bird, which would I be?
Looking upwards my eyes mark
the swirling forms of skylark—
See how hundreds pirouette and dive
in constellated pageantry,
instead of many, a single thing alive,
like a Pollock painted upon the sky.
Moving effortlessly in unison,
thriving together they feed and fly,
proving the boon of a goal made common—
but I do not think it is for me.
Now is that a hawk I hark,
turning in its murderous arc?
His shadow-sigil death portends—
down it swoops in flight so fell!
I can feel the rapid air as it descends;
the rabbit’s sluggish fear I smell.
Whether it’s fate it apprehends
my intended prey shall never tell—
….no, this must not be for me.
Camouflaged against tree bark
the owl is emperor of the dark.
None can hear him on the wing,
he moves through night like songbirds sing,
and as his muffled hoots can show,
he wisely questions everything,
even himself, and all there is to know.
Yes…upon this midnight branch I’ll rest.
It is the roost that serves me best.
An Ode to the Toad
A salutary ode to the solitary toad,
who humbly makes the log his abode.
From his floating perch he can scan and search
for a tasty meal. With a croak and a lurch
his tongue launches out, and before it can pout
a mayfly meets its amphibian doom. No shout
or protest from the rest of the swamp;
for all know the cruel law is to chomp
or be chomped. In the end, that is life:
a series of snacks punctuated by strife
(if you’re a bug; I don’t mean to insult
if your evolution bore a different result).
As for our friend, he resumes his dignified pose,
and whatever the current, wherever the log goes
there he was, as he is, and always shall be,
for the toad remains the center of all he can see.
Lithe on the Lathe of Desire
Lithe on the lathe of desire
is born a twisted, moving form
of two coarse bodies wrought;
brought separate, now joined on a plane,
fashioned from frisson, shaped by heat,
with no purpose to acquire, no prior conceit,
and no end but the ending wanted or sought.
Turning under pressure, more closely compact,
pressed together each fills what the other one lacked.
First Light
Dark chords severed, the room expands
beyond sleep’s dim borders,
fills out the corners of my eyes.
Turning, I roll into you
still collapsed in dream,
every breath running your body’s line,
limning its contours in the light of motion.
Dawn streams through blinds, flows over sheets
and smooths skin out from the shadows.
Too early for a modern speech
touched with unwanted meaning,
murmurs convey all the languor
stretching in young bodies,
contentedly nudging the sun away
for one minute between days,
where nothing exists but softness.
No comments:
Post a Comment