Birdsong

a bird
one morning
dropped
his song
into
the silence
before dawn
and
was so taken
by the beauty
that
he heard,
it could come only,
if he was not
mistaken,
from
another bird.

And so
he scoured
the sky
for
a second
thrilling note
spilling
from the self same
throat,
envying
the
swelling tone
without
identifying
it as his own.

Much
like first love
his
confusion,
the object
of
desire
ourselves,
the rest,
illusion.

Palimpsest

In sandy badlands
sidewinders
ripple,
leaving
behind them
scarcely legible
inscriptions.

Shuddering,
they skim
the desert's shifting surface,
incising faintly
an utterly indecipherable
calligraphy.
of contraction

Uninvited Guest

while I lie reading
pillow-propped
loud buzzing warns me
I have company:
a killer wasp,
a frelon,
close
and coming closer.
In self-defense,
I switch out the light,
lie still
and eat my smile
as
the prowler
drags
his feet
across
my lips,
stalks up my nose,
his heavy
hirsute belly
makes
my eyelid
itch,
I play corpse
try
not to twitch
until the tourist
tiring
of his solo
Rushmore tour,
lifts off once more
from my receding hairline
and vanishes
back down the throat of night.
His departure
tears
the air
with zooming
until at last
it ends
and there descends
a deeper silence
than I've ever
heard before.

--Don Bloch