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Dave Bonta
I made a stick sweetheart
but unwilling to keep her
I sent her away
to the cranes in the fields
but I did make her think
of making herself happy
with her strange fellow cranes
in the dirt and the marl
ingenious treasurers
of time and folly
where one is free
there is great plenty
I want her still
took her a glass of pure water
and hewed her
a thin ice bed
a field for cranes
instead of that ugliest beast
the soldier-like herd
whose face I have
Might this crane, stilled,
suggest a cat at attention,
triangular head?
Left hand like a starfish
watch it long enough, sensibly,
it may move an arm.
One cedar tree branch
bent like a worm, much older
than this argument
They call the busman
“driver”–that formality
cracks in my own throat.
Thick plaid headgear,
brown beard, thick glasses–a voice
like the end of the world.
She waves, the bus goes,
Looking at myself in my metal mirror,
I saw, faintly outlined,
The figure of a crane
Engraved upon its back.