Am meisten gelesen ▸
Dave Bonta
overtaking you in a coach
the wheel of her face
you talk enough to entangle
two or three hours
finches singing
in the middle of the night
as if at the event horizon
of a black hole
we go
to extreme lengths
out on a twig
i see asterisks as halos
i twitter like a finch
in a cage
you are
beside yourself
an angel of anxiety
in perpetual molt
let’s feather our nest
with eviction notices
get to the bottom
of this hope chest
A cop with a backpack sprayer
poisoning an urban garden—
why should I dream of this?
I carry out a dead houseplant,
but can’t find a snow-free spot
to lay it to rest.
The house finch whose eye disease
prevents him from migrating
warbles on and on.
We play a game
called Mouth & Ear:
one speaks, the other listens.
It’s simple.
If your words are trees,
mine are finches,
vagrant & garrulous.
In the nest of your ear
their fledglings
sprout fletching.
If my words are fish,
yours are lures,
marvels of ingenuity—
a water-bound being’s
dream of flight.
I rise to the ring of ripples,