The Ordering of Things: Circular
Chico, my blind budgie, to his dying gasp singing
of woodlands clinging to bars. In the crimson fields
below our lanai, a tallow ribbon of river
straining against a bottle neck, pressing onward.
In the southern heavenscape a speck, a vermillion atom
unmanned, interminably fondled.
Beyond the blind budgie's bars, a star's
frail pulsing. Its light,
they say, has surpassed its living.
The dead take up the habit of being.
A blind eye never ceases pulsing.
The opal star sings of woodlands clinging to bars.
Yes, we are waiting
at World's End, where Tyler's Landing
turns to sea. A diadem of seabirds
engorges us. At water's edge where the fiddler crabs roost
the vermilion x of a stranded dinghy,
two dead faces, two heads of wooly lichen greeting.
The bloodstains of the broken waters
recall us to Uncle Pibb
taken in the line of duty
tasked with reconciling graphs of Loma Prieta:
Who stirred the ant bed?
What slight bade the heavens resent us so?
All crimes are made by fingers
Uncle Pi bb's converging with rosewood and steel
mother's fumbling in a tumbler when the chintz is drawn
mine crossed, trembling
in one another, yielding sacrament for transgressions
I can't remember.
Cassidy Street is a teacher and librarian's assistant from Falkner, MS. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoian Review, Indigo Lit, Five on the Fifth and the ScarletLeafReview.