The blueberries in the saucepan
said yes but the bowl's metal flip
rising said spew char into blains
and the tragic arrival of ointment.
Everything takes you back
to some recurring dream
that is a constant deja vu:
couched in the louvred porch
symmetrically opposed at pairs
in red corduroy and ocher throws,
spirits gathered to haunt in silence
wondering what you're doing here.
The carpet stairs are worn there
and no repairs are scheduled,
the green clang of the dumpster
is a lifted chapter already uncus
in the window behind your ear.
How did that pine tree go
so unnoticed so lonely so long?
Intonations for a spell of virga
in a season already pluvian
go unanswered in the swirl,
the flirtation of the hanging squirrel
has coaxed the lettuce to seed
and the maple from Japan
is dying from ants under bark
and antic slapstick collisions
from the trampling of hounds.
A green and yellow garden glove
flattened with navy wristband
half in shadow and half in dust
awaits fingers of light to spread.
In the cry of the catbirds
I am summoned as a god
but nowhere else I turn:
it would be of no value to you
but it has great value to me
because of milky magic
in a molecular rumba
invisible to the naked eye.
Wondering if I should prune two branches,
I want gold finches and I want them now.