Messenger
The birds stopped coming after the annuals died.
I didn't realize how much I missed them until the bluebird
Returned, lured by the burgundy haze of the fall pansies
Pouring from the window boxes. I was too slow finding
The camera and then I left the cap on. The bird rose
Into a cut of sky and I was left with a vision of blue--
His sapphire eye and marigold breast. Maybe it was you,
Released from your standing body--fingers fluid between
Tissue and organ--as you operate in the crowded surgical
Theatre, transformed to tell me autumn is here. I would not
Be surprised. This brief visit imitates your frequent calls
Between cases. After he flies, the room seems to hold you.
I see the white waves throwing themselves into the Cliffs
Of Moher, your eyes stealing blue from the sky.
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