Evicted.

Expelled.

Dispossessed

of that old house

on the hill.

Three stories

of tilting timeworn

clapboard

& peeling paint

flaking over tired

green grass.

Seize it. Take it.

And welcome.

It matters not at all.

For in the moonless

night-spangled

dark,

I moved (removed),

like guileless wind,

all small & coveted

prized possessions –

a whole life’s worth

of work & soul

& pulsing wounded

heart –

to the small brown

bungalow nested

oh-so-sweetly

in the valley

below.

— C.Birde, 4/21

Sent out…

away from this

bright impersonal

space

with all its

glittering crosstalk

& hectic motion…

Cast out…

into umbrous night

& with an errand tasked:

return with cake…

Pavement,

heaved & crack’d & bound

around in encroaching,

tangled trees that bow

& rub together limbs

all but leafless…

And,

at the farthest end –

near swallowed up

in starless scrub –

a structure…

O, architectural wonder!

Entirely comprised

of swoops

     & swirls

          & curves

of hammered metal

sheets symmetrically

arranged to either side

of a single, central

door…

And,

above this fabulous

entry’s lintel –

nested amidst curls &

intersecting twines

of metal –

an enormous lemon,

all aglow in halo

of soft yellow

light…

Indeed,

the only light to move

or chase throughout

the whole benighted

place.

But,

nowhere,

anywhere at all,

a single frosted piece

of cake

in sight.

— C.Birde, 3/21

The boy has died.

One third

her not yet twenty

years.

     Intolerable.

     Unbearable.

Here:

within this rough

underground womb

of dull-winking

hematite,

through the crucible

of her direction,

the memorial

is constructed.

She oversees

the smooth stage’s

raising;

the steel frame’s

enclosure struck

with lights;

white screens,

like windless sails,

unfurled.

His image –

     luminous,

     aflare –

will transcend

the dark &

breach the void.

The boy has died.

She wears the burden

of his absence

with fury –

raw-edged &

     bristling.

— C.Birde, 3/21