A Twofer

I don't believe in backlogs.

PS from WEDNESDAY: I just read Tabia's e-mail through a series of coincidences, because she sent it to my MSN address, which I never, ever use for mail. Sorry. These stay, though. I will have Tabia's style... next week? I guess.


Please comment anyway?

across from the stage and under the trees

I am the only one today

who ran over snow.

The rest took to their sidewalks

as if they were stairs or the

tongues of some cosmic hibernating reptile

tasting the air.

oh, I understand them--

snow so new so lily-white,

breath of virgin lips--

so rather than waiting

I throw myself, pilgrim

whose feet kiss the earth

as he walks.

birdsong

birdsong! cut the summer air.

the wind is a perch that

never ceases to elevate.

like some kind of

glorious abstraction of the earth

the day is suddenly yours--

your beak gold enamelling,

your song a requiem

to oak and leave and

the drowning of our voices.

you summon us to pyres

and rob us of our melancholy--

better to leave! we think

rather than shake the branches

and catch the fluttering feathery heart

with open hands.

no;

if we refuse,

if we are mute

before our gift of glory

to keratin and bone,

it is no coincidence:

it is because we heard you

every time we cleared our throats

and were about to sing.