Against Life’s Bent, a Moment
In the strictest branches
and the boughs that pierce with sun-
drenched tangs, lonely halting
nuthatch and its mating quicken.
Is a-cracking is her lance,
terrifying is chance
that tells the arc’s division,
when untold breath escapes, like
tottering at the weave, the loom.
Hat-pecking strings so griddle
even weeping wound.
It is even broader nap inducing
as absconding wounded-bird inflection.
Then a firming far away
re-echoes pick-falls parting tables,
sensuous laughing flocks
of starting felldoms, purpling
callers. Then simple starling scripts,
dropping little stripling snips,
oh no not dangerous at all.
Wouldn’t it chuck along the wall?
Wouldn’t it append a patch of golden geese?
Wouldn’t it ride, set the seam, charm release
nigh and augur clear? Scry after?
And this apprised blue shoring;
and these rippled reticulating laggards
swooped in the stillness bell;
and the nays are bright and smooth;
and observer took to a framing,
and it blew out of the picture;
and it is temple-thrill tingling
sharply against gauntlet’s velvety life, bent.
— by Robert Mueller
Copyright © 2011, by Robert Mueller. All Rights Reserved.