lifting waits

I hold still; lifted up
by a pulley. This is not flying,
and there is no breeze. Still, I
wait. I will never know how
to fix a carburetor or raise beans by a pond,
but still snow will fall this January,
and I will take a weighty number
and exotify the wall stucco from an orange chair.

Holy Week

I
Bred in a red birth.
Behind your eyes, our bread's worth.

II
You last, I backlash,
lashing your back with black ash.

III
In black the red dies.
Stillness, and last, the dead rise.

reflection and object

a blackbird careening into
a mirror. a mirror
becoming me, becoming
a blackbird, and lifting
me up to nature.

a blackbird
on an oak branch,
mirror shards for leaves.
The blackbird leaves.