Sunday, October 31, 2021

Bunches of a Nest by Diane Mehta

Bunches of a Nest

What I started opposes what I shattered.
Marigolds I planted grow underground in silence.
Your arms hold me tighter.
I love you back with echoes of alternative languages.
Flutter-bees of temporary insanity, cousin of generalities.
My soul in clementine, looking for the gravity
dark matter imposes.
A place of conversations, so spirit-drunk it feels ecclesiastical.
Up the street, a blue jay and a robin in a tree
quiet me with their full-throated tightrope-walking
argumentative vitality.
I walk like a beautiful petrified shell of a woman.
Inside the fabric of my feelings
I am reeling. Disarranged, I long to fix myself
in million-year starlight beyond soil, latitude, season.
To what end are endings, to what end do we?
Below the dogwood’s pinwheel
white blossoms, face up with oxygen petals,
twigs, grass, yarn lie disassembled.
Bunches of a nest. A tiny bird, face down, beyond.

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