She stood tall and strong and willowy
She matched the grace of Leonardo
The clarity of Picasso
The lyrics of Wordsworth
The intensity of Milton
And the power Merit Ptah

House-heart-clock’s rhythmical
beats seem to be growing
weaker, fragile
glass-eyed-windows having
witnessed countless years
of each bird-wing sunrise
and sunset. Front door’s entrance
exit portal keeps tally of all
arrivals and departures.

After track practice,
shorter by half
for the meet the next day,
you cut through the woods
for the packie on the corner.
It won’t be a wild night.
A few friends, a few beers,
colleges accepted,
grades don’t mean a thing.

I knew that on your birthday
you would awaken in arms of unversed devotion and I would wake up face down in
the cushion of bogs
a scythe of acidic sedges
and
saturating gales of Wuthering Heights.

Why does God send crows to mock my dawn?
They resurrect all that is wrong
with deeds standing on my shadow,
with dogs growling at my heels.
My mind, my heart, I cannot explain
a guitar left out in the rain,
or my path, my direction…

She anoints discontented worlds
her claws preening her feathers,
with soft snores tinged by night-light
Enchanted by Mexican seeds,
she exerts vulnerable chirps
from a closed, sharp-slicing beak