A high, voice teetering


View this poem on The Disappearing »

A black and

         yellow eye in a bush

claws into me from red


             looking for nightmare, sly


truths lived by light,


only:  nothing's imagery of

fright and sinew finds its

own warm use for savagery.


A sudden country, this,


calls of a black bird

can ring a clarion bell


claret, golden ash, heard

over       the Parishes of purple

shadows, cloaked hills

                                    of glaucous

incomprehension, fear greening

                        in benign alcoves


A call of memory, no


             wordless and warning, spells

signifying fruits, spiders, warns,

of a cat's striped growls

one hope shared among the one

and many flock,

                      the whole

panoply of shrieks and groans


triggering a few acuities of

clear days and darkness, small

flick-locked, drummed necessities of the

quickening, reflections off the bell

imitating quick



                        simplicity.    I

see the black and yellow

    eye                it sees back

              at me  I


am rocked in a trembling cradle.



View this poem on The Disappearing »