As the evening’s featured poet takes grasp
of the podium, in the billiard room
of the historic home, November gloom
surrounding us outside, a paper wasp,

unseasonable sight, lights on the floor
lamp beside the reader. It scales the pole
tentatively, as she begins to dole
out works from her new book. Our eyes detour,

however, to this acrobat, as she
reads a work about the circus. It climbs
to the fixture’s head, bright heaven, as rhymes
form to its right. We fear calamity,

but our poet’s oblivious, even as
it flits and buzzes, bats against the shade,
dangerous guest, attempting to evade
a cruel, blinding trap. Our poet now has

slipped into a piece about some poor bird,
a cardinal that smashed the glass
of her patio door. Our gaze holds fast
to the drama in the shade, not the words

she displays, polished up for this event.
As she moves on, with a verse on angels,
our visitor escapes from its tangle,
hovers on blurred black wings, ascendant

to the transom overhead, a single mind,
to reach cold, deadly air. This performance
artist, of a sort, who appeared by chance,
graciously leaves our attention behind.

11/18/2001

Posted on 11/18/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt