Faint leaf-smell from the February ground,
an autumn detritus (beside snow-islands).
Warmed-over, not-yet-burnt - your plans, your
understandings. Waiting for the sound
of the camouflaged joiner, the mumble-bird,
surpasser of the smoke of smoky books,
cigars. Her puffed-up chest locks
in a box of keys. Her wings whirred
over the sleepy sand-pit near the cemetery.
You remember the idle glance, the beak
of sooty bronze, the silence - who could speak
in her presence? It was only adolescence (very
sorry, Sunny). As it was in the beginning
when the dust danced in the street, between
the houses and the grim trees, dark and green:
where hobos congregate beside the ringing iron.
more from the embryo Jubilee Diary:
~~~~ 3:37 PM