Hence viper thoughts…
I turn from you and listen to the wind.
—S. T. Coleridge
That bird, such a goad to the roaming eye.
Surely, he must see why my rime is for a time
when truth is thought a fiction, not an outright lie.
More like a mise-en-abyme of his flight behind
the symbol for flight, this birth of the body
in a body of words. More like the hemisphere
of the brain, than the globe. Why make a hobby,
of circumnavigation when it’s clear
that fortune should suffice? Fate can be a bread
leavened with lavender and leaves, a mind
of lilac bushes, a perfume that we must dread
to smell, but fate cannot be the albatross left behind.
His destiny is like ours, atop the Southern Cross.
Each day’s beauty of flight, erased. Lost.