Departing Morning Birds
The beggar men are bound for innocence,
fingers tapping out string, that yellow stuttering
frequency of bow light, eyes eating the sullen hillock.
The angry men constantly practice a hanging
from the masquerade roof, tiled with angels
who wink when you go by.
The soldier men saw order, expecting
sense out of the bronze chaos of the eye
but only finding the ghosts of those once knew.
The poet thinks of two worlds,
“I’m never here, but I might be there”
both emit bursts of Technicolor,
one fades into a mouth of coal.
Gnarled knuckles choking on dusty verse,
such cunning, truthful as water.
And so did the heavens fall with stretching sneezes
that blew into twelve great fanned hedgehogs curled,
a dream flowering in departing morning birds.
Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His work has appeared in poetry journals in a number of countries.