The sky leans over, close enough to spill. A blurred sun squints some admonition in hush beyond language, near breath.
all beak
no feathers
Category: creature watching
feather
of lead
Bird, sing into this place for the weight of what remains, for I mean to shelter what may not be saved.
vibrancy
life beyond ideas
What moves hand, root, tide, bud, breath––
is no abstraction, but the trembling in each
listening leaf.
repair
or extinction
Imagine irrevocable rights.
To live and move.
That these might be held.
Sacred and constant.
Instead of the constant
threat of nothingness.
plant talk
underheard
Inert, you said, in our direction.
Unfeeling, without a brain.
We were eating light, making green.
Involved as this was, we still made efforts to translate for you.
You plugged your ears, turned eyes to the cutting glow in your hands.
Working, you said, of what you were doing. We wondered, at what?
You did not seem to have a taste for light and the dark frightened you.
Here, we offered, waving. You turned away.
where will
how, singing?
Hello, bird. Without your forest, you sing a loop from a wire. From where I stand, your presence is a nagging question. Where to live now. How?
Amphibious
soul on watch
Heart turns on the timing of frog’s cry, to catch the light falling through leaves.
considering context
this solution an unknown substance, dissolving
No, meaning is not the cat’s pajamas. I think but cannot tell you how. Neither is it the bees’ knees. Do these dream in flower? I can only imagine. It isn’t exactly remembrance or having the same nightmare as the night before. This morning’s visitor wonders whether deer think in words without knowing it, so now I wonder whether I might read in flower, unaware as one who by the swallowing presence of an atmospheric mind, can write herd even when alone, and smell the wild prairie poem, recited in honeybee.
***
Inspired by Bernadette Meyer.
The Invisibles
Here and now, unseen.
There are plenty of us floating around, unborn beginnings. We are translucent sacs, blooming bodies like the bells of see anemones. We pull substance into us and release, moving in a way reminiscent of flight but not birds, of flight but not planes, neither Icarus falling nor hero triumphant. We are the unrecorded.
Flower
One possibility
While the machine stoked panic to drive us apart, it was possible to choreograph the rests to allow all dancers to converge, an encounter in which each I gave way to eyes.