Tag: angling

A talented rearranger.

At the end of the day, before bedtime, a poet is simply a talented rearranger.

The end of the thought starts with, “to let me use the words of another.”

The bass voices sink the harmony; weighted and anchored anglers’ lines

reeling.

⊙

Battened down with closed windows.

The marine layer of the Sound meeting wild, smokey arboreal particulate,

here in the convergence zone.

And, her windowsills have been sealed tight well-over eighty hours.

Yet, her eyes burn and itch anyways.

She figured past smoking would better serve her presently.

⊙

And, there remains the novel

Virus

Innoculum.

⊙

And, sometimes, sleeping suspends;

so, she plays with shadows and lights,

(while her door hopefully bæres the passover mark)

…

Curtain ampersand Apperature.

Sans breezy volumes of infinite emptiness, posed.

Avec ennui

possessed.

Pretty Bird and his Lady Zen Archer.

Show myself

My shoulders don’t just fold;

they collapse.

My upper lip moves, caught on a hook

being tugged by an unseen angler.

My lungs forget how to work.

My brain refuses to accept the notion that people want to show kindness to strangers.

They.

My fingers sign as though suffering a rheumatoid attack.

Snout buried.

And, in this moment,

I wish to become invisible.

But,

I show myself anyways.

A corvid in the time of covid

Outside my red barn door sounds the ferryman’s horn.

He smells the stink of my freedom,

his fishers of wo/men casting rods with wormed hooks.

¤

I listen; and,

the automated time operator says, “after the beep it will be eight eleven o’clock.”

¤

I espy,

perched, a corvid in the time of covid.

¤

Together, we watch the casting of lines,

the sinkers dragging down the lures,

bobbers poised to tattle if I bite the bait.

¤

But, I don’t.

Together, we hold still.

Ellipses kissing

¤

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□■□■□■

□□□■■■

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}

¤

And, when the late afternoon light becomes all a bit too bright,

the bird and I retreat within

to watch my curtains’ shifting as they breathe with the Sound’s breeze

We calculate the curvaceous calculus of the wind’s volume,

inside the cavernous gutted carcass of the scarlet barn.

¤

I ask the oscine passerine a riddle of

equality regarding the allotment of the equine,

“Can you divide a dead, old man’s seventeen horses in proper proportions between his three sons?”

The old crow caws out a throated laugh and asks, “Can you tell me the mathematical significance of the eight of wands?”

¤

It is technically a statement.

It is phrased as a figurative question¿

¤

In the evening, silent, we conspire about

The Great Escape

through the bramble of branches, not the seam of the green where we’d be

upwind and easy for the Dogs.

Shall we carry squeak toys just in case they get a whiff of our freedom¿