About Birds

Petro Moysaenko

I would write about birds
But that's a weak sort of foolish
No cold lite phantasm pulsing dream
Into those corners of second sight
Or the cabinets where sat our comic bedsheets
Windows eased open
Allow an asked-for breathing
Do you hear the voices of young parents
Dashing themselves over the wet blade
Of night in Ohio
Tall blueness begging for vacation
And a door in the hill locking
Dun glades repay our excuses
Leaving the places we left
Vanishing in place
Our landscape washes out its versions
Green and gold all furled light
Birds weave in air possessed moiré
Pressing the bell of your name to my tongue
I would write about us