Bye Bye Blackbird

Somehow,
beautiful small bird
this morning, at the window; one
always seems to come
when he is needed: this one,
a slice of crescent rust,
white belly and delicate
thin beak
(nameless, without field guide)
though smaller than a towhee
he resembles, stays
only a moment (here
in the country) to give a start to this.

But first, of care and woe, the nameless
to pack it up
in weak and sufficient
simile: a towhee
winging slowly among branches
in the night, like a fan, those
cuts of rust—
seen, and not seen
completely, but identified;
always, it is harder
with females.

Sweet sugar of the night, night
trails in the air:
birds the color of night,
black birds, and the creak
of gray mourning doves
sweeter than sugar.

Night’s
a prologue to day, though alive:
drunks, in rage on the city’s streets,
inarticulate voices
came to me; I fancied
lost day-birds calling, an air
and an airing, through spring’s open windows,
thawed, lost, and winging low,
to give a start to this—
in a city

where I was handed
hard luck stories in shrillness,
sugar or caffeine,
the fix of your fame in public,
our name still a confusion:
I got your letters, perverted
messages in a box. Heads
turned still when I spoke our name.

What can I give you?
permutations of Duv, Tobe and Ocean?
Peace, of our country name?
I’ll hold it for you now,
light the light, in secret?

I’ll take our name
into the night, not of towhee
in shyness, but beat of the name’s
echo in the mouth, “Toby”—
to soothe even these dark birds
in the chest, trail them
from force of anxiety of lost name—
here, in the country.

But it is morning. It is not night
nor country. It’s the becalmed
waters of ocean at bayside,
the sharp glint of white sails in the sunrise,
green sea lettuce at shoreline, that
small bird at the feeder—
(forgiving light)
and a need
for celebration beyond the name’s hoard,
where he waits for me:
a confusing spring warbler (or is it a she?
cuts of rust?)
this music the day makes
that we could dance to. You
and I walk on the beach together;
we are thankful for no language:
yellow hulls in the sunrise, terns in the air…
Surely, there is some better message
I can send you?

I’m blue again, love struck
for the dead; words stick
like a shocked wisdom tooth,
useless in the mouth
and out of it: just another
dumb simile; is the life
but a metaphor? Death is the ground
of the memory
which is the life, not spirit
but that which the hand opens to: (the memory)
tracings in palm lines,
rust cuts, that become “Toby” or any name;
only, that the brand burns in—

and that I can think of cowboys (here
at the sea?)
and a hat you once wore.
I caught a glimpse of
you, cowgirl on the avenue,
corner of Broad & Arch (in a city)
who didn’t see me, was intent
as always, on the task at hand—
in this case hitchhiking
in a transit strike.

Your hat sat
at rakish angle, but for others; un-
selfconscious in any costume
alert, always ready (for what?) for
anything: memos, empty hassles, dancing,
I think, even
that final activity, the loose end
of which I am left with: “Toby”
on scraps of paper
awkward voices on a phone,
the push of memories that can’t be filed
or put away with you; it calls back to me
constantly—
Duv, Tobe, and Ocean
belongs in the country
but I’m near the changing patterns
at shoreline, and there is no
peace, here, yet.

(Peace—
permutations of the name come to that:
English, into Hebrew, into English:
Toby—as peacefulness.)
I picked you up, your smile was
wan, already. One

note, one
song stroke, one throat, one
bird, only, to evoke the name,
the insane desire for a perfect speech:
(blackbird) here I go—

Let me forget, darling, that I go on
living; let the name be
not a mask, but a forgiving
presence; let our face turn
waxen, then insubstantial; let
features be rust cuts on this evoking body.