Theatre Of Grass

Rain birds chisel
A heaving silvered sky
I think how
The polish smears reflections
Until just the wake of it remains
In lines as thin as chemtrails 

The weather will one day end, you said
With that delphic nonchalance
Of blue emerging from occluded winter
An eggshell’s upturned mask
Exaggerated so
The sentiment is more easily read
Across the vast arena of your thrall

I wonder if the grass
Remembers where you fell
Sways the shape you left
In evening’s bristled yellow

We have a house of melodies
Not regrets, holed like the lace
Of blowsy curtains, a shadow’s
Brief forgetting on your skin
The fabric, thistle dry
When it gentling scrapes
Against your brow, and lips and chin
A genuflection, anathema
On your eyes, another
Involuntary blink
Through dust in sunlight’s sheaves
Almost the start of weeping –except
Gathered around the street
(The drone almost tired) scattered flowers make
A library for bees, the honeyed
Aftermath of thoughts
Dolloped with the burnt wing fragrance
Of returning spring

From seed a bird

From the bird seed that I spilled
Grows a bloom with eyes like wheels
That turn the way the sky chases clouds
On spindle legs and crooked wings 
It gathers bottle caps and things
That make a jangle noise
That – though voiceless – breathless sings
The birds all watch with care and chance
As the petals fold and dance
A hunger in their tourmaline misrule
With whetted beaks and silvered claws
In flock and fury pierce the hide
Of the creature that, in obeisance stays
Til leaves rent and eyes sky-blind
Fire yellow from inside
Takes wing and flies into the sun