The Last Songbird
We heard you once, here on earth, singing from the icy turrets at dawn as the tarry wind whipped skyward & you swooped from steeple to balcony to wire, over the hospital where a pink glow pulsed in one window like the gummy heart of a mole that burrows from the center of darkness, from the center of stone & clay where your song went to perish, how in the end it already sounded so distant, like the whispers of a dying poet trapped inside a glass jar, or the sharp gasp of a ghost bleeding through the radio in an apartment where the ceiling kept coughing up a fine, stinging snow of asbestos & we opened the door & heard an explosion & we opened the door & the day was rubbing its forehead raw in the scalded parking lot while someone’s mother wept, looking for her lost keys, oh bird, what secrets we could confess if only you would hold still, but you keep punishing us by darting into the gaping mouth of oblivion, you keep punishing us, shy thing, by turning into a brittle leaf, or by leaping from the edge of our sight into the cauldron of smoke roiling beneath the bridge, punishing us in our dreams where you drift & pirouette in the makeshift air, where you fly in reverse & sing so sweetly that the batik of blood creeping over the sidewalk effervesces & recedes, flowing backwards, & we wake remembering our dead & the bright cafés & how we used to whistle a little crooked tune over the sounds of the morning traffic, calling you down to lift us off the ground a bit & bludgeon us with your song.