Goldfinches
       

If never was the question. Even then.
That when feels closer now

might embarrass me before this window,
more mirror than I would like at this hour,

bathos of years ghosting face, throat,
my impatient turning off of the lamp.

Now I'm small again, and the world outside
mysterious, perfumed, & large.

Were I not to feel this, would now
be when? I watch the primal arousal:

day's lost fruit stoned by black hills,
the metafucked in the metaphysical, &c.

Then five duskal flames assign me
the barkless dark, the barren cherry.

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Copyright © 2012 Lisa Russ Spaar All rights reserved
from Vanitas, Rough
Persea Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission