Words as Birds

Here you are, and here am I,
Divided by so many miles.
Across the space between us fly
A flock of words. They are not birds,
These words. At least they try.

Dust

Moving is a bit like bombing an archeological site. You never quite know what will be tossed up into the air by the explosion or where it will land. This is why I always try to wear a tin hat when I am packing--to protect myself from the stones and bones and falling potsherds.

The following relic is a recently disinterred sonnet I wrote several years ago. I am not sure it really requires very much explanation. I transcribe it here today mainly because I have a friend who also works with birds...


Dusting


I still could live without the pewter owls,
Glass swans, or creepy cardinals in wax;
Although my crayons loved the orioles
Made in Occupied Japan. Our knick-knacks

Also included bottles. These troubled me.
They filtered light like prisms, but had no use
I could see. Corked, and clearly empty,
They never held Chanel or real chartreuse.

All they held was housework Saturday--
Dust--and lots of drama: ripping sheets
And underwear, like onion-skins, gray
T-shirts flecked with motor oil, or grease.

All of this rage spilled from one pillowcase,
With a worn complexion, like my mother's face.