You fail to see the rooted trees–
banging your life form into them
and falling as blackbirds do

when they return from West Nile
or those with with poor eyesight
like the crow I discovered

as I rose from my cedar tanning bed
my breasts – as bronze as August
nipples pointing towards

its coal black feathers – combed stiff
and its hot, infected halo–
all intriguing

I thought I had an audience
as I lay without blanket
but the blackbird died soon

after I disrobed
You wear your genitals
like old English rags

their fine tweed–
eaten
by hungry moths

Mel Sarnese