December Poem in the Backyard

December Poem in the Backyard

Wine glasses
line
our fence.
Full, dark thighs.

Motorcycle's
abdomen
buzzes the perimeter
of insomnia.

Raindrops drip
like black figs
from maple trees.

Crickets devour
the night
without clue
to how vast
infinity
really is.

Humans, of course,
never sing
for attention,
would never
drag
silk elbows
like white boas
down curved banisters
on antebellum staircases.

None of that!

We humans prefer
to discover the universe
as we go along,
sort of like Columbus
sailing towards the edge
of a postcard,
or Descartes
probing the spiritual intestines
of cats
with his mathematical scalpel.

The wine's dark thighs
in our backyard
eventually turn
into mockingbirds
spilling over me,
soaking my hair with mockingbirds.

After much practice,
I've concluded
that solitude
is a voluptuous tutor.


Alan Britt

Posted over on Word Catalyst Magazine