I had an encounter with a bluejay this evening,
solitaire in dogwood niche or perch, a lonely
lieutenant ‒ or maybe just at ease (one homely-
pearly moment). Looks around, intent, scanning;
watches me (through the window) watching him.
Animals are great actors ‒ each minuscule move
steeped in suspense (a rifled minie in its groove).
No wonder Egypt wallah’d hawk-head Wisdom ‒
hoary Horus was a watchful bird. But I digress.
Where was I? Bluejay watching. Watching me.
Involuntary improviser, memorious volunteer,
funereal... north-southern (riverine, I guess)...
African button, lost in the hold of a Petersburg
prison-ship. Melville’s tomb (honeycomb)
at the bottom of the sea ‒ small room
(portable) slivered in Marlowe’s eye (O mirror’d
Mag). Loaded magazine (a-glinting dirk).
The symbolism of these brassy, clashing cymbals
keeps one wondering & wandering forever & anon ‒
yet yon center of centers, yon gate of gates (hark!)
rests in your soul : yon Equalizer to the last degree
(Simon, Rupert). Just is. Just is the end.
When the Eternal comes, & you spend
your last penny on a rags-weedy gown, Marie.
So be it. Her humorous leg-kick or poke
in the ribs is evening’s promise : the memory-
star. When the whole weight of your soul, see,
is lifted... anima-child, bird-whistle-bone... look