
“Enticed” — 11/18
Desired or
not —
sheen and color
call attention,
while thorns
discourage
t
o
u
c
h
.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Enticed” — 11/18
Desired or
not —
sheen and color
call attention,
while thorns
discourage
t
o
u
c
h
.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Four white bodies,
whiter
than Autumn snow;
sleek and blemishless
and smooth
as the far horizon;
extending,
reaching,
stretching,
and –
with each near-silent,
muscular stroke –
beating
brisk air
to cream.
— C.Birde, 11/18
Raul?
No. I don’t know any one by that name.
Yes, I’m certain.
Who said that…?
…but I don’t know any Raul…
He said what?
About…me?
Well, that’s embarrassing…
Sure, fine, I guess it’s flattering…a little.
But any way, you must have misheard…
Then he means someone else.
I’m already married.
Fine, fine. I’ll follow you, but only around the corner.
No. This is far enough.
Yes, I can hear him.
…
Good grief…who talks like that? Is he reciting sonnets?
Rhapsodizing? You’re being dramatic…
No, this is close enough.
He can see me just fine… from his pillar…above the crowd…
God. Look at him…
Listen to him…
Listen…
…
What?
No.
No, of course not.
I was not.
That’s ridiculous.
Besides, he doesn’t even recognize me.
I’m not the one he’s talking about.
I’m not the one he means.
I’m not the one.
…
I told you.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Conjuration” — C.Birde, 11/18
Light
slips through our
grasp…
Each hour of each day —
paler, thinner,
more threadbare than
its yesterday.
Plumed
in solar flares,
our tongues regale each other
with half-remembered
tales of milder days —
songs of Crow and Centaurus,
and the Great Bear,
of the Herdsman
and his starry flock
spread across the night sky’s
vast backdrop.
Frost-touched,
we’ll pause together
at Winters’ gate and,
reminiscing,
conjure
light.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Separate Waters” — C.Birde , 11/18
The bridge extends.
Below, to either side,
in frantic haste,
wide waters part.
We stride
in confidence,
reach the midpoint of the span
and cross beyond…
When,
in headlong rush,
the tides return,
frilled with crashing
foam…
His name lodged in my throat,
upon my lips;
in fear,
I cry aloud
for his steadying hand…
Out of reach…
beyond reach…
A fury of water collapses, collides,
consumes my voice, my limbs,
my life.
A thunder of water
separates.
A wall of water
divides.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Orlando, Garden Snail” — C.Birde, 11/18
Snail’s pace —
wonderfully
well suited
to
snail space.
≈
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Spiral” — C.Birde, 11/18
“Exhale” — C.Birde, 11/18
Each leaf,
a breath
captured,
collected,
Falling,
now fallen
in sweet
exhalation.
A volume of sighs —
oak & maple,
sassafras, linden,
& hickory —
strewn
at
our
feet.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“The Trees” — C.Birde, 11/18
The occlusion exists,
persists
resists clear sight.
We look, but do not see.
Focus trained myopically
on that bit,
that sliver,
that comfortable
shard of malleable truth.
Distortion…
Contortion…
Fleet glimpses of the whole
caught unexpectedly.
Insects trapped
in self-made amber —
dismissing whole forests
for the isolated
tree.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Triptych Window” — C.Birde, 11/18
A cloak of feathers.
Tier upon tier – swan and goose and snowy owl.
It floats gently about the form;
delicately, restlessly skims shoulders, limbs, and torso.
White as the moonlight gathered
from that heavenly body adrift in the night sky.
Aglow, each feather gleams and shimmers in the otherwise darkened room.
A room of gray stone – heavy with antiquity – arranged to form a turret;
to form, on its exterior curve, a large bay of triptych windows.
Decorated with scrolling grillwork, each of that trio stretches upward
toward the ceiling’s inverted, conical peak.
Undressed, the windows beg the moonlight’s entry,
plead,
invite,
as if that tide of light could be denied.
Feathers — silver-limned, separate and together.
The satin-clad bed at the room’s center — softly aglow.
The seam of light that leaks past the bathroom door’s blunt rectangular face —
challenged.
Voices beyond that door…
No.
Ignore them.
Do not heed their whispering; their arguing, incessant hiss.
Do not listen or be distracted.
Return to the triptych window, to its stone seat and summons.
Rest upon its cushions – crushed velvet, indigo blue;
Sit, clad in feathers and moonlight,
beside the pair of over-sized and venerable gray rabbits.
Stroke the rabbits’ soft fur, until one hops down, away,
ducks to hide beneath the bed’s satin skirt.
Peer out the window, out into the darkling night
from within the turret’s giddy height.
Over silvered, grassy lawns so far below.
Past the castle’s humped and shadowed torso
to the turret opposite, twin to this.
See there?
Those triptych windows, lit to glowing beyond parted scarlet drapes?
Someone moves within that other room.
Bathed in brimming, golden light —
another soul.
— C.Birde, 11/18
“Rest” — C.Birde, 11/18
Gently
— so gently —
the leaves drift
& fall.
Let them rest…
Let them share
— in rustling, rasping voice —
their tale
of fickle light
& forfeit height
with the
ever-patient
earth.
— C.Birde, 11/18