Poems From: Winter Chickens

 

THE NAVY BLUE CHAIR

Wraps quiet in its smooth chintz,

silent as a rabbit,

as the black dazzle of midnight.

Outside the kitchen a phoebe

sits on three eggs

while I rinse the omelet pan.

The chair’s fabric

is slick as an egg, the chair

knows nothing of bloodshed.

Has no need for language.

Only—there is something

in the easy curve

of the firm high back

that might allow anything, anything

at all: hatching, feathering,

rising through dark air

with the lift of a Mozart sonata,

the lilt of a perfect soufflé.

After the dishes are finished

I want to sit down. If I sit

long enough in the blue chair

I may know when the phoebe’s young

will crack through to the air,

when the summer storms will break—

when the clashing of flesh and beak,

the loud pounding of hard rain,

of hard flight,

will have to begin.

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(First appeared in Poetry)

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SWALLOW WATCHER

Every house needs someone to watch the swallows,

someone willing

to half close the eyes, lean the head back

against a tall chair

in a garden, on a porch, in a courtyard.

It doesn’t matter if a cheap paperback

falls wrinkled from the knees,

a wine glass dangles

empty from the hand.

What matters is the watching:

following

the lifts and darts

of the small birds,

the racings and screechings over territory,

the jags and dips for insects,

the gliding on wind.

About the time

the neighbor’s porch light comes on

and the sky

can’t hold color any more

the swallow watcher moves inside

to the glare of living room lights,

but he turns, leans

against the cool glass of the sliding door,

and stares out at the dark sifting down,

quiet as feathers, as wings.

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(First appeared in The American Scholar)