Afraid of what the world will do
you feed the birds in your white cotton dress
like Aquinas tousling with the good ending,
pulling back your hair, tying back your hair
as if you know how many angels dance on the head of a pin,
as if you know that fingernails grow after the resurrection.
Those were the glad days. The birds were not machina
& our outermost house was a pageant of Prussian blue.
How quickly the whales belly up.
Draw the curtain, the farce is played
kiln baked, blood stoned, sentenced to hang
the moon is a brew of hellebore
Albion rose, sepal sore
how quickly the stars throng numberless
& now birds pick at flames washed ashore.
Damon Hubbs
Damon Hubbs: gardener / casual birder / lapsed tennis player / author of the chapbooks ‘Coin Doors & Empires’ (Alien Buddha Press) and “The Day Sharks Walk on Land” (Alien Buddha Press) / recent work appears/is forthcoming in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Acropolis Journal, Apocalypse Confidential, Dreich, Red Ogre Review, and elswhere. Twitter @damon_hubbs
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