By: GTimothy Gordon
Outlier nesters filling up- and -out spring greens,
chitalpa, spruce, willow curated street transplants,
white-wing petite doves, thrashers, whiptails,
each flat as a paten, tiny, tight clutch, solo-living
in deep time, sheathed-in-place, tasked by instinct
to be watchful, patient, in fierce, daylong desert heat,
never once stirring, embracing, this throbbing air.
Pale Fires I
The geese have come back,
one last drink at the Bosque,
flight north, cold already with them
on the wing, imbued in their bones,
heat, banked-out fires, earth-ash and dead,
memory carried in the marrow.
We’re sensing it might never leave
from where it came, threading through
The Organs’ Needle, Baylor Canyon Pass,
by air, luxe steamer, quiet footfall border
breach, disturbing the peace, filling home,
us, scrubbed with dread, who know no
this- or-off-world fix making life livable
as before. By dawn & moon lamplight,
we dream of home, how it is, was,
never be home again.
Full Moon, With Stars
The full moon rises, pauses,
takes its place among all
midsummer stars not known
for color, or shape, or size,
full moon, with stars,
the kind of night thing,
above all, we wish ever
with us, in a dark time,
never not be new.
Dawns Just Like This
Covid Summer 2020
A change is gonna come.
Dawn easing through
Needle-Eye The Organs once
clear-cut, parsed plain, it seems,
like the desert, flattening its curve
over pepperweed roughage,
just for us, on dawns just like this,
breath-fresh, not one woke soul sick.