Bird drama

The chick is a ball of flesh ,from a proud mama’s love,
In the wind of the wire , a home away from some trees.
The birds are mama and lover ,accountable to the chick
On the A.C. unit where they had brought it into being.

Chick waits throbbing in a plastic shovel ,dropped there
Into a new space of gravity, but a shovel is not a home
Home is up there where bird chick is franchised citizen.
A dropped chick is a throbbing mass of no flying wings.

A sweeping maid has her duty toward homeless chicks.
No wings , no fly but to die ? Maid drops the chick high.
O conscience beating in my bird, guilt at not doing thing.
A heart beating like a wingless chick in a cage of bones.

Why no cooing ,only high and flighty shrieks ,wing-fights
Above the A.C. unit , why this drama of feather-flapping
Finally why this silky silence in balcony’s higher reaches.
Here fingers fly on keyboard but soon doubts take wings
If the fucking mom has taken it in or has chick left its bird.
But I am not thy birds’ keeper, fingers say, keeper of own.

Drizzle

Drizzle happened when we were away
In rain, catching it in our palms and hair.
We would go through its falling snakes
We went inside , much afraid of snakes.

They would slip though our eye-lashes
And fall right into our pockets and stain
Our surf-washed clothes with round coins.
The coins would fall plop into our shirts
In our undershirts ,in their star-like holes
And tickle our cold bodies to the marrow.

Drizzle happened raising hair Medusa-like
And its hair- snakes went all over our faces.
In the end ,eyes had little pearls clinging.
When in rain they did not shine to the sun.

Flowers for T.V.

At night I opened the door to tiny flowers
Dropping from a fragrant piece of the sky
Amid my television trials and tribulations.

They were my birds, chicks their fragrance.
In the morning they would granulate my air.
They were moons broken from a housetop.
With the sun up they are gone with the wind.

It is eye-care time and open the window
Says a computer near a window of flowers.
The fallen flowers lie scattered on the floor.
An arching creeper is waiting for the night
For a repeat act in my tonight’s T.V. woes.

A hole in the asbestos

I am circumscribed by rocks and flowers
In a bowl where you saw a surprised hare
And now a peacock on top, its blue head
Outside eyes, my glass eye fails to touch.

The rocks are not yet warm with a day’s sun
Squatted in a wilderness like brown figures
Smelling grass flowers with upturned noses.

I look farther to see the lake rising to the sky
And endless asbestos fence beyond the lake
That has a chink for people to snake through.