Eye dangling on a twist of nerves,
phonetic, gelatinous package
rounded by gravity, pit
that cores, kernel of truth
seeing indifferently it's a joke, a bluff, a lure
to drag you in as if being a bird
is what it's about luke-red
cushion against the topiary
stack or bollard, crazy horse
bristling and flicking
in the fading light
as you slip on jam
and a bland scent guides
you nowhere, despite
the demographics
being sticky with residue
of elsewhere, as acrid fumes
fill the gaps in memory
and incite the bird suddenly
to take the berry,
the sound of flight,
the volatility just below
the skin ejective, implosive,
contingent



Contents

 John

 Kinsella