Was it in a nightly rite of purple pique
that the wobbly stanchion light was lit
and gilded with a thin taut elastic strip?
Perhaps this was only light for quiet eyes.
So easy to be fooled by the early rings
of baked and boiled dough, day old moldy
but flash frozen first or so it's come told:
kinky perks, smoky karaoke in night's pane,
she tapped with evaporated paint exhaling,
that it's its own guard for an evening stance.
At Last was echoed through the rabbit count,
sweeping, dissipated, with incidental focus,
prone with one leg straight, one knee akimbo
to sail past yesterday and tomorrow's swirl,
unafraid to mark that evening sky as brilliant
in an inner teeming puddle of startled starlings,
where certainty is assured by uncertainty
and that feeder flock full of noisy finches
brings ripened grains fully chocked of nijer.
The slap of time that excites the nose
whispers go, little redwing, flutter past
the bales of dried grass that seeded winter
through the squawky radio static of geese-
it's hard to really see with eyes sewed shut
there is no way to crisscross court the warmth.
A good-looking man in tan pants and a blazer
enters the hive of commerce briskly strapping
with our Mary of the holy sporting harness
in the middle of a sacred sandwich half and
half again you can smell the perfume of ecstasy
and rejoice and let us squirt, again exhausted.
Thinking of dogs and a blackbird appears
prompting a peripheral pump of adrenaline-
this was not what we expected in early race
a chignon of meaning that almost teases time,
the roar of the manila leaf bag drifts into sky
past where is parked the crap-mobile this time,
not lashed by hair outside the serene call of nylon
repressed desire resolved in tinting windows rolled
begalia pollen a mark that is always washed away
it starts to get interesting right about now-
done in by ruminating ovine, moon equipped
and no longer sanctioned by a state of grace
he officates from two wheels screeching rust,
available inside delivery and liftgate service
sensing movement where there is none, whoa,
and a feathered fight for the last french fry.
To be the possum unloved by many at sunset
with a slinky tail that can prove delightful
but only when it's crepuscular and easy.