Wednesday, March 31, 2010

"Dead Wren"


"Dead Wren" from Pierce the Skin

When I open your little gothic wings
on my whitewashed chest of drawers,

I almost fear you, as if today were my funeral.
Moment by moment, enzymes digest
your life into a kind of coffin liqueur.
Two flies, like coroners, investigate your feathers.
My clock is your obelisk, though only this morning

you lunged into my room, extravagant as Nero,
then, not seeing yourself in the sunlit glass,
struck it. Night - what beams does it clear away?
The rain falls. The sky is pained. All that breathes suffers.
Yet the waters of affliction are purifying.
The wounded soldier heals. There is new wine and oil.
Here, take my handkerchief as your hearse.


Henri Cole

1 comment:

The-Grizzled-But-Still-Incorrigible-Scribe-Himself! said...

I'm not familiar with Henri Cole, but I like this…not the theme—wrens being one of my two most favorite birds—but the writing and imagery.