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3.

3. John Kinsella, May 5 2009

Soul

You’d like to think I am all flight —
red-capped robin in the wattle,
      electric red-head
      red heart for your
delectation, a body not mine,
to flit across your vision.

Soul

You’d like to think dust
turned by garden fork
      will unearth fat
      lustrous worms,
to enrich a barren claim,
hungry insolvent soil.

Soul

Each place you hide is part
of the ground reaching out:
      an ancestor lost,
      luggage packed
in second sight, the cage
slung between stakes.

Body

      A bird strike!
      An engine out
and we’re hanging on for dear life!
The circular motion of a pelican?
      Great horned owl.
      Raptor! Raptor!

Body

       My avidity for changes
       of scenery doesn’t prevent me
loving the dead of all cultures, in all
countries — I am better for seeing
      first hand, I am better
      for moving on fast as I came.


Body

       The glory of dawn
       on a wing in its chemical
wedding, within the ribs of the worm
as it flies through the night, a glaze
      of learning, of gifts;
      eating our feathers.