Bid Me Be the Bird

May the lower, liquid half of the world
stop belonging to me. May it quit lapping
at my feet. I've flown a branch quite far
in my beak. I've emerged from the mine.

When I began these documents, they faced
forward: their end in the distance.
Now that distance is tilled rye fields—
a great beast with a hundred other beasts
in its belly. May what they stew on be stirred.

I've got wings is the point. The soul's central issues
are dizzying, and I am a slave to them, as they are
to the Fill-in-the-Blank, or the dot, dot, dot.

I know the way to the mouth. I flap along.
Bilious bodyguards of clouds, but none
with any clout. I pick up and put down
the stick. May the olive tree one day
regain its brotherhood of scattered limbs.

Of a dark, diluvian night, sometimes
a beast tries to flee the field.

Mouth, mouth, mouth: my light and my exit.
Steady wings steady the point. They'll set
a dynasty of meaning in motion.

Don't let the up-ahead seal its lips. Don't let
anything block the route. Good tidings. Green
sightings. I wish all of your houses well.

Copyright © 2002 Nance Van Winckel All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission