*
New Jersey’s oldest abandoned iron mine
—even this sprout
sacrificed, its only leaf
as if inside some small cage
the last summer left
turning yellow, fell
—I listen for feathers
for this paper unfolding
almost a flower —the Times
reports canaries gagging
by the millions :trees
disappearing in black love notes
in myself, in some forest
where tiny wings are rocking the Earth
are pages struggling
as wood has always risen
singing to each sailor —for just so long
sides against the sea
—over this worn-down mine
I cover my lips
till even the sun cries out
for air —miners too
can tell by their tongues
blacker and blacker, can hear
it is evening and a lone sea bird
—they even made a song for it.
*
The stream we thought extinct
still carrying off these birds
—it adapted to the heat, flows
unnoticed, its only predator
confused :oblique sunsets
harmless dawns —in such a current
leaves screeching through the gusts
rip away their green for altitude
less weight, less memory
less evening —I lift this stone
as if it were more flames
a sudden flower
rushing through my throat
—I almost drown
pulled by a breath always thirsty
always listening for whirlpools
for the heart torn loose and boiling
—in these rapids
still struggling, the stone
clings to its feathers :my hand
lifted without remembering its cry.
*
My camera kept strapped, frantic
as sometimes a radio
will splash and wrench and ships
capsize at anchor —I lift my son
and over my shoulders the waves
—I can’t turn around in time, the lens
tightened till under his feet
the dry grass snaps, the fire
filling my camera the way drums
are still carried off, each click
for proof, picture after picture
taking away his cries :more stones
to shatter some ocean
lit with small islands and his eyes
—he sees the waves on his cheeks
blurred as if their shadows
or when he sleeps
ecstasy would cling even without the clouds
approaching into focus, clearly
glued —this album full, still warm
and his eyes that exact distance the Earth
was preening itself in front the sun.