The dew bristles with bright tufts of grass.
The only noise for one hundred
and sixty-six
square miles—
the human cry of a blackbird
although there seems
no finer recall/recoil
than borders on religious experience,
while you still elect
to stand inside the squeak-way
of a narrow back door—
the tinning of your old currency
rarefying hope,
your tongue prophesying rickety nothing
save stone-loaf
after stone-loaf in a rock-steady comfort-yard,
the sweat of whose brow
emboldening
the guinea grass?
When will you become hip
to the relay
of your own contumely suffering—
the holler-perfect storm
you harbour
unbeknownst to all
the raw proliferate sea air?
And then this O so enviable spill truth—
the screeching aria of a bird
that not only confounds
your puny bravado
in the coy reticence of the day
but draws you ever closer
to the agony under dispute,
each harrowing note
reframing last evening’s mischance
redefining today’s
pitch-perfect retort—
its tireless employ/implore
the very stevedore
in your soul’s heavy lifting.