fire fire fire

I hope my fire isn't out. Here's a bird poem about birds.



Lurid in blue, but following suit of
some suitor who glued me to
the plumes

of a suitor who vocalized low
in a harsh vibrato, who

was only blue bird of paradise blue.

'Bird of paradise' is 'bird of god' crudely lyricized,
far-flung family named by a dumb lover pulling a color:

Sur taxonomy cum hybrid bride blue,
tautadelusion cum azure mantra, blue

Vishna hung in the Virgin Mary's robes blue,
lewd blue, vulgar but true, only


NADIA replies:

here is monsieur crepuscule, dumb plover

elegant as a crane with his reedy legs

and his blue wings tucked back, perfect

conduct and under neat the lapsed

egg, ovoid missing cluster of others

faint blue to blend in with some bird's

idea of subtlety, eternity, or horizonless

water, every waterbird's cool wish

when dusk dims the distinction

between water, wind, water, and

gusting air, the fat sails, or in doldrums

the gut strings, plucked.

dumb lover, some august plover,

luridly drowned in the ding-donging deep.