The Bush
The extraordinary arms of the bush.
Trap music still echoing: the singing
birds another cover. The conscious hush.
The extraordinary arms of the bush.
Trap music still echoing: the singing
birds another cover. The conscious hush.
The full moon, glowing at dusk,
and the audacious bellbird is calling out from his tree,
so small yet so loud.
Father’s special homily gave Mother
and the choir some rest. I leaned
across Delphina’s lap beneath her arm.
“Why don’t you go to Japan and ask the cats?” I said to the TSA agent when she asked if
Tell them yes.
Tell them poetry is what chose you.
Tell them
you had a night, once,
just as they did
Late, I rush down the stairs. Distraction, tiredness, hunger, an error in muscle-memory, whatever the cause, I miscalculate the steps. My foot dangles, leather-clad toes seeking, yearning for something not there.