the birds feed through the fall. beaks
to bite holds--all bitter
grains and flapping wings
against autumn's palate
of pastel sugar cravings:
motion in a still landscape,
moving to the speed of flight.
in the moonlight the momentum of
survival slows,
the metal of a man-made feeding
machine catches the night sky's
mirror. this inverse
revolution tickles the calendar
of waves and shadows like
a caffeine buzz on the brain.
sometimes i commute by plane, fly
high with
no wind in my hair,
no flutter to wings,
on a never
ending chase of stimulation,
going to work finding another
limit, the feeder with no food,
relapsing once more in an addiction
to temporary, a love of what's away.
sunshine stays vain like a lick of
hair stuck on red lipstick, razor
thin heals clicking marble floors
only under her feet, waves of light
trickling down on skin. she glistens like
a woman who knows what
she wants, taunting us who
don't with a strut that shines
through the night,
catching tips of resting feathers
on wings.
dls
