blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2010  Vol. 9  No. 2
print version

El Laberinto

Bet in the wet it's scary,
circles of hedge above our heads.

Dry season, April, we can see
five or six rows through

so no worries. At the center
a high gazebo, with Escher

mazes morphing. We scan
the whole garden

and beyond. Then backtrack,
perverse, seek out

the dead ends.
A nesting

clay-colored robin
regards us, her beak

trailing untrimmed
a waist-length

beard of moss.
When her mouth's

not full,
she sings the rain.  end

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