Moon bird does think only of the moon

As she side-steps westward,
Never turning away from
her namesake, her adoration.

Not once blinking her glossy black eyes.
The moon, pale as a skull,
sits reflected on each surface
otherwise as deep and dark as the wild night.

Tonight,
no cool light appears to give me reference
or to cast its peculiar shade on this scene–
the crooked fence,
the scattered leaves,
and myself,
barefoot on the dewy grass.

I also consider
my lover, the late hour,
and mother-morning, always-pending.
The moon bird, however–
does think only of the moon.

Like a Metaphor:

What is a poem but a captured thought–
a pointed gun, a barrel smoking,
here it lies in front of us, and presently
we decide to not prolong its suffering.

Why interrupt these flying things?

Why read, why write, why take out gaudy yellow pens
and highlight for the sake of erudition?
Why paraphrase that which has been doted on
already? Afraid, are we,
to lose sight of the fleeing bodies?
So comb the field and hear only:
a humble squeak, a flapping wing,
and find after a somber search–
feathers, drops of blood.

“Why so many questions?”
you might ask.
“Inquiries,” I point out,
owning the sentimental idea
that language is a bouquet,
and we shall not sample
just anything
for its own sake.

Star-crossed lovers

Explain this to me, before I explain it to you:
a little brown cricket jumped under my shoe

as a flower fell from a tree outside–
was it suicide?