Ornithomancy with Rain & Flying Geese
The sky empties leaden rain. Its story
falls apart on its way to earth. Its story
is the same sad story everyone is retelling
as it dashes and smashes through the tree
canopy of myrtle and crepe, of birch
and nut and locust rut. It falls on fields
in a haze. Geese chatter upon chatter
upon chatter, the field dashed with pine
shatters, a plastic bag lifting one ripped wing
to the sky. The geese land like it’s no big deal
to fly under wind and rain as winter runs closer
and closer with open arms. A window opens
to hear the crashing rain, and forgets
at once what made the glass so sorry
about the gunning weather. Clouds
and dangerous cracks, thunder doing
what it always does, complaining
and complaining about its joints forked
with pain. How lost the geese look, so many
necks bent in question marks. What shall they do?
In the haze of weather they look a bit like priests
bowing in prayer. Understanding god means kneeling
before a man. Giving all breath to his glory, a man.
The geese? To understand, listen to the rain.
How I Wish To Be Fine Crystal
to reflect all that shines into it, bright sun
through the window, bright faces
of hanging lights, smiles bright with lipstick
and gloss, or bearded with frost
or puckered up with jokes, all looking
into the crystal, to drink fully
and fully drink before laughing
and dancing, always dancing, always
before the unfacing of all formality,
buttons loosed, skin flushed, an eye
opened up at last; then, to be carried out
given a bath and put away
behind glass, to be loved as such.