A thrasher in the linden
cobbles an aubade from thrushes, jays,
doorslams, donkeycall, thunderclap.
The azaleas hold fistfuls of bee-sodden paper.
Out here, gunshots sound whimsical, or bored.
The new colt, still creased and kinked as an unfolded shirt,
has four comically outsized knees,
shotputs weighting him to the earth, a cool dream
above which he’d spent months
trussed and dangling.
I want to shrug out of the year,
hang it on a branch like a truant,
and float out into the deepest part of this hour,
forgetful as a fish.
I would like to wear the warm mask the sun hands me,
let my face recede into my skin like old, unstable ink.
But the sleek eggs yield blind razors
and the dogwood cannot stop
its terrible pink thoughts.