Issue 16, Poesía | August 2015
A Feeling Rare As a St. Kilda Wren
It continued to rain in the trees after the rain.
As if the rain itself originated from the leaves.
A soft whistle. A door bowered in shade.
It rained above the domiciles in Elysium.
Now, true, the thickets and the scrub.
Many tender cups filled to their jagged brims—
their crisped lips too dry to drink,
gray worms like a parrots’ parched and desiccated tongue.
Then came a feeling rare as a St. Kilda wren—
or as when the dry pomander fell and broke.
The Escher-like loveliness of its urchin insides—
like a reliquary of a Byzantine city inside a walnut shell—
Fat floats and fragrance falls!
A wind came from behind. Is this the sun again?