by Flower Conroy
A wishing bell resounds in the clean cut air
but is meaningless.
The drifting lover says nothing of the night-
jar’s churring—in twilight even stranger than dark’s other
sounds, as of wings or horns,
beyond the verdant herringbone of mountain-trees.
Consider the whitespace
a waterfall buried within,
the back of a mirror, where the ghost
in the machine
keeps the body here. Now the whippoorwill
is an inexplicable thing.
It turns its external ear
to the how-much-is-too-much-when-is-enough-enough-wind.
I turn & face the otherwise
empty window the panorama
stares back from. Geodesic dome, grotto of asteroids,
satellites & starlight debris,
mint-laced breadth, a feast
I eat with my eyes.