2 September 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 3

The Birdkeepers

by STACEY DUFF

When Lisa falls to Anneke falling in Lisa

songs assimilate an auburn cup:

martins are privy to glass, to burn

further in the quivering arrow.

Lisa calls this the taxi in adolescent

repose, but Anneke is swift to argue

such acorns tumble forward on the asphalt

without knowing Parisian static and the long

twilight grumbling of distant mortar. Home:

only a shadow Anneke demands of inner

virginals near Lisa's quiet axis. Lisa

shakes violently in sheer objection

to love's thrown autumnal: this,

Anneke, is an ordinary satin gown

whether I'm down on the Persian

or at maneuvers whose fields

envelop town, and a bluish warbling simmers

blush, some accidental summer your lips

my wrist, unknowing, unsounded, grazed on.

Or when Anneke falls to Lisa falling in Anneke

schools of sheep flutter in the brain

and flounder in unison at once. Pleasure,

if you must call it pleasure, skims the pond

and cattails ache to regain their momentary

sway toward water, toward shadow's memory

written as pollen is mystery to grain, as

breathing would guide the silver coin

past the owner's pocket, returning

a moment of infinite cost:

mountains of pines whose p and whose s

sting with visibilities of constant season.

Lighting loops a mansard, Chihuahuas

glitter at dawn their tawny eyelashes,

and a rower's song enmeshes the lake

with mist, all for a robin to fall for.