I lay down soft in open wonder wander green and simple, plain.
Stuttered, where your soft plume stumbled. Sad to see you wane, again.
How, hold fast and nurtured thus your beak shone.
A virtue, if I held it, longer, still we build a flame, a frame.
Flight. Soaring, mighty. Kite.
the deepest mystery, my own self, unfoils a tiny notch. small blessings. who am I? what am I? why am I here? why isn’t it acceptable to scream these questions from the rooftops. small blessings. a friend listens in the dark of night. quiet in the void… a poem slips and forms, wordless highway of my heart.
my desire to build myself a muscular temple, splurged from the desire to want to build myself. a throbbing, wobbling, don’t slice or snap my thighs into you for anyone.
Day fades no more sunny strips pounding heat thick charcoal smoke billows blends with city lights I stepped off the street into Afghanistan a compulsion to wrap cardigan round bare pink flesh before feasting on lamb sides so hot they snap stare as sweet air teases senses rip off dvd’s do the rounds in crumpled supermarket carriers roses flash unwanted their wares no hurry night calls eternal
I remain
I am the same
I rain
I reign
I am the same
Holding the small, soft, beating life of an early-fledged chick in your hand is a truly humbling experience. Making a choice to take it home, dote, play god and wrap it in cotton wool with the constant fear it will die in your hands. Or to leave it on a cold pavement, prey for the red kites. To rip it away from its homeland, so far away, up the road.
Some weeks ago, I moved the warm body of a rabbit, killed on the bank, to the side of the road. I was concerned that I would come back each day to see and smell its flesh more rotted. The next day I came back and there was nothing where the rabbit had been except flattened green. Perhaps a vulture came in the night, perhaps it ascended into the light.
