The future is a bird you release every morning.
It flies away, and you wonder if you will see it again.
The past is a wilderness you have already crossed.
You look back at it from peak after peak after peak.
The present is the path rising up to meet your shoes.
And you, watching every step.
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Bird
The sax was his sex, wailing on
Heroin. A blue heron becoming
A heroine of the sea, he swooped
Across the spume, surfing for
Sufi starfish, those briny fingers
That fell from heaven when
Gulls clipped their wings, only
To scoop up scallops and fry
Scales from geometic melody,
As if memory grew wings in
Bars like Birdland in order to
Forgive his sins and transform
Hummingbird to falcon, shearing
The edge, reluctantly, regretfully,
Just short of a full note, call
For caul at a wake for his birth.
[Disposable Poem September 22, 2009]
Dr. Mike
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