mouth is a sweet black well, mutating bitterness
brambles & ferns pouncing through bricks, basks in honeysuckle words,
entering with forks, spoons and cameras to vinesoften adobedges;
        has not heard many words today,
& most have misheard its listening taste buds
     bean shells, fly bones and bird wings spiral into the well
chasing innuendos, carrot peels, hint of sadness, seed,
feathers torn, yet regal as silk damask mats…
         unseek sweet words, tea scones, & unfold thorns –
therefore, love those blackbirds, the way they are free
to flit down throats, to their unwinding coffins somewhere
everywhere between spine & kidneys, where they perch
vaguely, nestle up for the shorter evening
        burrowing no deeper,
for then the taste of their scarred song will not cry out
a surprise,
erupting out of the silence – each starling's jagged note
     a gardener, trimming what is most spectacular
about stars

07/06/2007

Posted on 07/06/2007
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