One Theory of Poetry
It’s the solace of lazuli buntings
and chipping sparrows I hear
while nuthatches laugh, scaling the pine
in full view of the overweight cat
who bats at remnant moths bumping glass.
This is the hour before owls take the trees,
hour of snake retreat, of the tarantula’s
return to the gravel yard, panic hour
when trees are not what they seem, gray
hour when the dead look for sustenance
in a set of misplaced car keys.
Even now I long to see her, gorgeous Figure in the Flame,
hear her tap those ashy feet, impatient with
into the meaning of life.
I must get on with my burning,
her white lips sizzle as she steps
back into that inferno of suffering she adores.
Alone I watch car lights bounce
through the dark mood of branches
comforting as luna moths on fire
tattooing the road to home.