Goddamn These Wounded Birds

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(Poem For A Martha I Can't Recall)

Listen, oh listen,
Listen to this wayward wind that blows
Cool and calm through noisy streets,
Between the voices, between the choices,

Our palms outstretched, upraised,
The evening sun in glory,
Indifferent to our praise.

These many faces you contain,
Hold back or offer to my
Too-eager gaze,

I want to, yes,
I want to, no,
I want to shake these youthful dreams and say,
"Give up these tears or tell me why!"

I'd nibble your ears
And whisper, whisper—
Oh, but not for love—
Or do I mean, for Love Alone?

What man will dream his life away
And only speak to phrase or frame his own defense?
He is closed up in a fortress that is safe but dark.
Safe. But Dark.

But listen, listen,
Listen to this wind that gently blows
Calm and cool through cluttered streets,

Our palms outstretched, upraised,
The evening sun in glory
Indifferent to our praise…

rcs.


4th draft: 06/23/04
©1974 Ronald C. Southern

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