Bird Constructions

Cat Clyde sings “Mama Said” and the sky parts below her crystal wings
She has no stalk-raven atrophy ravaging the salt nests of orphan seismology
This is where God lets me hear the whispers of Her fame, like a tangent tree
Delicate like raven winds and mesmerizing tart sands under altrusive call breaks
In the peaceable journeys of broken stanzas like the weight of an ashtray that won’t go away

“Please hear near me,” I plead hoping for a call and response, so cold in this shaking pearl
She does not need one to call so peaceful – like a tired orange tree plumb line
like a dismissable olive branch, so cold with rendered fingers in the dove-shallow morning
This song is a fortune one renders like pigfoot soldiers, an obstressive balcony of fallen waters
And Cat Clyde continues to hum the bassline of pardoned pearls lingering in the yard
Where I once to spoke to an old god about about a plant and China and newborn infants

That was not the last time I was corrected to never judge the plant or any living soul
But I was given perspective into intranational welcoming and shadows of lonely distance
How will I retreat from such a distance? Or withdrawal from such a apertured tree?
Bordering near the streets, letting go, is a fleece shadow made of open armed stanzas
And mindful telemetry like a cross-stitched balcony towards our behavior and time

Like whits of downy appraisal and documented lies told to our mothers and partners
Cat Clyde says “discontented” while God says “green grass in the morning,”
And with Her the morning is not another phrase for a resurrection, not this time,
There is no resurrection, but that doesn’t mean there is not a time-after, an extended pausing love,
If one can get over their guilt and let go of times they did not meet a perfect swan statute

There will no longer be the remaining cordial stalled witness of framed and distilled combustions
Like tattering, towering oceans of pleading soldiers caught in the driveway of unmixed soil
And partitioned disaffection, singing no more to the haunting birds, but learning to love them
Learning to love the sound of God floating from the trees, not adapted to the highways.
The song of the better animal, lost in the retribution of humanity’s unchecked constructions