Oh four o clock mechanical bird
By: christopher Leibow
Category: 1, american poet, chris leibow, experimental poetry, love, poem, poetry
Oh she says as she looks at me naked and at the ocean in the center of my palm. A simulacrum of some archetype. Don’t mind that I say and finally she doesn’t and she flows to the ground like a waterfall, a final release of longing and of the exhaustion of holding back; the wet soil of her eyes making me think of the coins I left on the window ledge of the shower glistening in the morning sun.
figuring out this strange economy where my land is desired but undervalued by the speculator because their return would be greater than what they can conceive.
I am a quarterhorse tied to a merry-go-round. Round and round we go. All horses
but not. Biting – biting at the ropes.
It’s a recession of imagination, hiding in the shadows of stones fallen from a once cared for stone wall. Those walls that are not meant to keep anything out — but mark distance and definition by the care taken to build and maintain, their responsibility,
the ability to respond to stone, to history that sings forward from the path behind us.
So I wind up my four in the afternoon mechanical bird. send it to God as an offering for more kindness and grace.
