snowbird

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