blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1




I look at the carved Christ of Autun
whose hair has never moved
blankly judging souls without looking
and the pelican whose thumb feather
says hand and the demon capitals
the safe ones most satisfied and sated
in their fine cruelties
I do not go near them They are false
The grim set of a chisel made them

This is not a typical day

Ordinarily cicadas would wind up
I would be writing with feathers
or with reeds Ink would be soot and water
Cicadas would wind down
By midday I would be so historical
I would write birds are the carriers of content
and so says the blackbird
from the rushes flashing his scapulars  

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