Blackbirds framed heavy
full on your branch, familiar to you
dark budding pools of fingers
autumn chandeliers on fire.
We used your dead bridal cloth
feasted on wistful hermits.
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,
ripples of shells from rage to pain.
And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied
of return. Unswerving glade, so young
and cold, singing of deep calm space
mermaids and easy Indian time.
Pointed street, the root of our planet
hollow, laughing, sedated in little
quakes, crushes the old chandeliers
rushes towards the square sad sky
and makes the blackbirds sing
out of frame.
Copyright © 2010 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.