Night Sky White
The neighbor rigged the flag rigid
so even windless it stands at attention.
To void wind—noise of a worm on the lawn—
to plant turf in a desert.
Small white flies buzz over the scene.
Somewhere we aren’t, we could see
all the layers of stars all the way back.
Simple Machines
The cat is everywhere, chasing a blue plastic spring
across the floor. He paws at it, retreats behind a shoe,
suspends his disbelief and vaults back toward it,
sending the spring skittering
and skittering after it. Little panting sound
from the exertion of hunting.
The Wikipedia page for suspension of disbelief
says Coleridge coined it; I wonder what he imagined. A theater
of people, faces glowing from the light of the stage.
Then something happens. A chandelier flickers,
something in the mind is hoisted upwards,
as if hooked to a pulley system. Not like trust; like
yielding. The curtains open
on a blue that doesn’t usually exist.
Routine
Push the wine away from the table ledge
in case overnight there is an earthquake.
This is how I anticipate the night.
But all that really happens is I see birds
in immaculate color, birds I’ve never seen before
and scramble all night to identify, rose-colored birds
nesting in roses, monster bird clamping its beak
over my foot—hardly able to believe
it’s real life and not a dream—
birds with letters or fingers for feathers.
Then, steadily, morning: rain all over the windows,
wine placid in the glass in the center of the table
where I left it. And the birds where I left them
in the roses.
Ars Poetica
Hans, who is a poet, pointed
At the tree trunk. Covered with eyes
And, beneath each, little ripples in the bark
Like sound waves, he said.
I told him he should write about it.
I know, he said, but how?