The Effects of Bee Pollen on the Male Libran

It's a bird! It's a plane!
Why can't it be a man?

Honey! Honey! he said
as she cycled down the road

sounds of children
in the near distance

—Honey! You forgot
the shopping list!

Suddenly a gentle
but firm wind pushes
against his breastbone

his arms instinctively
throw themselves back
and his legs belong to

Baryshnikov they're
not his anymore
he's, he's floating, rising

the children's voices
spin by like he's the merry-go-round
and yet he rises

why is this happening
what the hell was in that
cereal she gave me this morning?

Could it be
the coffee?
Oh God!
It's the bee pollen

He knows now the entire
spoonful was too much
she warned him: Only a taste
only a few granules

and now look
Where is she?
Why doesn't she
see what's going on?

Why doesn't she
turn around?
Can't
she
see?

Tree and trumpet

There's the tree rooted firmly in that corner of the garden, branches bare this time of year, though buds appear to promise that these ancient limbs are no less capable than their supple neighbors. Lichens rust, gray and green may be found clinging to one side where the prevailing cold enters this scene. A robin redbreast clasps a crooked arm. She gives us her bold and complex song. We strive to hear repetition and find none, although there is an inner song that changes little, one of jubilation riding just this side of doom and decay, but for now, her song holds forth, catching us up in her quest for life—could be a fat wriggler amidst the dirt and twigs—could be more than we expected from a mere bird, anticipation of the shovel, say, and the hand of the gardener who will open up the earth a minute just in time for breakfast.

We see our breath this time of year, especially that dew-heavy hour when dawn comes in with enough light to go around, so much we take it for granted. Not so the tree, whose sap though slow to rise this side of February, will indeed move through the xylem cells and push pale blossom first and later on the leaf, heralded by the pastel fall. And so we express our wonder at the show of Spring, the intensities of Summer and Autumn's withering beauty—seasons and senses filled with smoke and light, glimpses of gold and reassuring greens.

Stacked together like books on the shelf we reach out and take these colors and their awakening codes to our room or spread them out upon the table asking for more when we're the ones being asked to bring what we already have. And what might that be?

Wakefulness. Patience. Silence. Laughter. Applause.

Listening now to Leonore #3 on the heels of #1 and #2 my goodness the weight and pace and clarity is extraordinary. All the momentum of the first two is there but so uncluttered and driven, not stripped away but consolidated—an economy of sound but no less rich or full. More rich, more full. It's as if the spaces now created in this third version find us pulled in, drawn magnetically, compelled by echo and fading lights, quickened by resounding timpani and brass, enlivened by strings striking and dancing across the mind.

There's the trumpet—so far offstage he's in the hallway where the security guard questions him. Oy, mate! Wotcha doin' lurkin' out here, then? Well, the answer might be, Do you want the cavalry to come or not?

Yes, please...

Centipede tracks

Centipede tracks in the dust defining the anatomy of the past—like the time you took your siesta under the swing set and dozed off to the faint percussions of far-off conversations in that coffee shop in the rain the way it fell in big drops one per cloud passing over the wires, one at a time, too, from each runnel of the corrugated roofing—you know, those corduroy roads the plantation trucks claimed as their own. Those were the dust storm days with a small confusion at the weekend as Shinto and Christian split the difference in the morning air. Go ahead, say you weren't there. Say the bits fell apart with every swipe of the machete and every crumpled chit they used instead of money, but I'm telling you it all comes down to this place right here, the components whole again, everyone living in each other's head and the excruciating sting of the truth burning off all the hairs of your right arm.

Song For Aunt Helen

Song For Aunt Helen

—On Her Eightieth Birthday

You set the whites out on the hedges

Pulling bleach down from the sun

Gooseberry pies cooled on the ledges

Each day sang its work hard won

You were the young and faithful daughter

Milking the cows, making the bread

Fetching the eggs, carrying water

Long after everything was said

All across the hayfields you did go

Taking the tea to feed the men

Season to season, fast or slow

Blackbird, robin, thrush or wren

Nieces and nephews near or far

Followed you about, cried on your shoulder

Horse and trap to bicycle and car

Summer came and found you older

And when the old ones passed away

Winter surrendered to the spring

The bitter cold gave up its coat of grey

And you untied your apron strings

Up to the capital you traveled

Searching for another way to live

Everything you knew had just unraveled

You wondered what you had to give

You crossed the wide Atlantic Ocean

Saying farewell to your beloved home

Ships and planes and trains, slow motion

Afraid you would forever roam

All across the city you did venture

Following your heart, your head, your hands

Making friends on your adventure

Setting roots down in new lands

How quickly now the fiddlers play

The ring upon your hand, the man close by

A tear of joy and love will have its day

And time will tell this story with a sigh

You are our wise and faithful aunt

Who’s given us so much and for so long

The one whose life says can! not can’t

The one for whom we sing this song