One day, I
may learn
to forget
about blackbirds—
to one
by one shut
each obsidian eye
and just walk
away
from that branch
in my mind—
and
for all I care, let
the brave sun
and full moon
collide—
and leave
every furtive
tiger lily
purring in the dark,
locked away
in a small
musty drawer
inside one
of the four
chambers of my
silent heart.
But
I don't know
which day
I may turn from
that gaze, or
which night
the mind's poem
turns to pure,
steady light;
so, until
I can see it
without urgency
or interest,
best to keep
the days clear,
and continue
to write.
