| Sestina for Harry Langstaff Beneath the tall ceiling of trees, we are tucked under a green blanket of light. The swallow is already dead; a tiny slug emerging from its eye socket. The swallow has just told me how to make peace between volcanoes. Finding the swallow dead makes me sad, but as long as birds don�t die squirming as cockroaches do then I can still feel tiny raindrops where you do, on the insides of my fingers at the knuckles. If my head, isn�t tucked, and my back is straight, who�s hand will find my shoulder when I�m sad? Even if smiling bodies are still embraced in green summer, I (unable to swallow) should still deliver weeping now, though I cannot. A piece of a bagel will pacify me now, though it may not stop a twitch in my eye. Enough of a shock would smite a swallow outright, and I think that smitten you are indeed. If you do find gates to take you to heaven, or where peace is more then a word, send me a letter tucked in a snowflake to tell me, dear swallow, the color of the ground there. I�m not sad at your passing, but rather celebrating your achievement. Sad neither is the slug that has finished his repast of your eye, though I wouldn�t know if he�s celebrating. Swallow, did you like cookies? They�d have thought I was doing voodoo, but I�d have been honored to share cookies with you. I wouldn�t have tucked you in a pocket, but you would be welcomed to tuck a piece of a cookie in one of yours. Maybe when you send that snowflake, a piece of that ground will find it�s way into it as well. Will it be a sad zinc-gray or steel-gray or nickel-gray chunk tucked inside, or will the icy architecture hold some eye searing song of metal? I must be emphatic that you do send the snowflake, and soon, fair swallow. But now tell me, if brought to a dance floor, what would a swallow do? Would you move with the same grace as in flight? Would you chase a piece of tail? Maybe you�d strut for that tail. Shout a little cock-a-doodle-do. Would you dance with a mouthful of marbles? You wouldn�t be another sad wilting wallflower, I�m sure. In circles or circles and circles, I would dance along side you. By the end of the night, numbers would be tucked into our breast pockets to bulging. The prettiest swallow�s number would be tucked inside your talon as we�d leave. Do not think the others will be sad though. Even if you don�t take a piece, I think they�ll still be happy enough. |