OFF INTO THE MORNING
Off into the morning like a bird with insomnia
that sings its choral part in the tree as it sleepwalks
into the dawn not knowing if it’s the beginning of a new day
or the end of a dream it was having about flying away
forever forever forever free as a shadow on a cloud
before it ruins the radiance of the dawn shining in its blood.
Blood Drop. Cardinal? You push the limits of scarlet
way over into the infrared redshifting into a total black out
during a saturated firestorm of British Lancasters
over Hamburg trying to sow the whirlwind with incendiaries.
For a little flag you go way too far with the banner oriflamme
of dragon fire heating up the furnaces of your heart
with prophets and art and burnished gold as white
as the eyes of the diamonds looking out from the coals
with tears in their eyes they’re so happy to see you
so clear and adamantinely insistent upon staying fluid as tears.
I waited three years once looking out my studio window
in winter at the slim lone candelabra of a tree with a bird feeder
as I painted for you to come to the candle and assume
your proper place as the flame. Even wrote
a ten page poem about it. The Writing Lesson.
How to take a little spark like you and start a forest fire
with someone who’s distantly related to the stars
and the chimney sparks in a high wind that keep flaring
incendiarily against the pines as if they were lashing them
with whips of fire with stars for barbs like the rainmaker Pleiades
at the end of it all. Star shower. Phosphorus power. Cocked spur.
The ability to shine underwater as if you were burning
it was that hot and you had nothing to cool off your blue stars with
like Fukushima trying not to kill the fish or evacuate Tokyo
or curtail the tinny blue fish tin business on the west coast
with laving tides of radiation to counteract the filth
of having tumours to contend with when all you want to do
is fly off into the morning with an intense infernal glee
your shadow comet and you are immensely free.