Improbable box of peculiar dimension

(larger within than without)

& covered in plush fuchsia velvet

Upon lifting the lid

(which doubles as inset tray),

see, set deep within,

a turntable with LP rotating

r o t a t i n g

Lift the record up & out

Tilt it so light catches

& runs along the arc of grooves

incised upon its surface

Note, with some dismay,

that the wider, ungrooved rim slopes

& wriggles across

those tight concentric rings of song

(doubtless interruption)

& arcs toward the cardboard core

where the artist’s name is stamped:

L e d   Z e p p e l i n

Sudden undeniable urge to hear

that singular song incised upon the vinyl

Place the record back to spinning

Drop the needle,

see it skip & slide across the grooveless rim

(soundless, songless)

to bump & hiss against the printed core

Again

a g a i n

Fruitless effort

Reset the tonearm to its resting place

Return the improbable box-lid-tray

(smaller without than within)

What’s this?

Resting, now, in the tray’s concavity,

a fabric-wrapped-something that,

upon the freeing of its cloth,

is revealed to be nothing less than

the aviator sunglasses of

musician,

songwriter,

multi-instrumentalist,

& record producer extraordinaire

J i m m y P a g e.

Delighted, hold them cradled in hand

as the improbable & unexpected gift

(treasure)

that they are.

— C.Birde, 11/21

Asleep or awake…

In liminal space,

she sits –

gauze covered –

on the bed’s edge

Considering

Reflecting

Her form,

a map of contours –

shoulders & hips,

waist & spine,

profile;

Her hair,

a knot at the base

of her neck;

All

softly blurred under

film-white layers

as she shifts,

lowers

d

o

w

n

atop the coverlet

gently beside me,

entirely at ease

in liminal space

Neither asleep

nor awake…

— C.Birde, 11/21

On the left hand –

hand of the moon,

the feminine, the emotions,

& the hidden;

On the ring finger –

finger of the heart line,

of creativity, beauty,

& love;

The nail here –

     of this hand & this finger –

has grown

to extraordinary length,

& when touched,

tilts –

     painlessly –

from its bed, removed.

Inspect, at eye level,

this two-and-a-half-inch

semi-circular keratin shaft;

Inspect the convex,

empty bed;

Realize –

astonished –

each, with soft gray lint,

is filled.

Reseat the nail –

     carefully –

refit it to its powdery,

dust-gray base;

With the right hand,

gingerly place & press it,

thus;

Held now –

     nail of the left finger,

     of the left hand –

to its original place

(a temporary fix,

at best).

— C.Birde, 10/21

Confinement

cast in barren walls;

smooth-polished floors

of wood

A spartan space

Devoid of comfort,

coloration,

but for a single blue-gray

drape that stirs –

alive with motion –

draws attention

to stretched-wide

sliding doors of glass

Step through…

(bare feet exposed

to metallic bite

of the threshold’s sill…)

& pass without…

A cloistered deck awaits….

(O, secondary ruse…)

Gaze up, neck craned…

Witness to impossibility,

to the unprecedented –

A looming verticality

of storm-gray water…

A towering sea-wall

barricade that sways & ripples,

looms & eddies,

a-swim in motion overhead…

Extend a hand…

trace white curls & lines

of foam…

touch small leaves of ochre

caught in spiral currents,

& recognize…

(with sudden indrawn breath)

the trap’s new-altered

height & width & length.

Although recast, reshaped,

confinement yet

     remains.

— C.Birde, 10/21