Coincidentally

The same June of the same year
a stray canary had fluttered
into her house and mine
in two widely separated countries. Nabokov

The lick of a flame, the wing of a butterfly,
a pumpkin, a sorrow, the earnest sunrise.
How do I describe the bird that burst
into my living room in feathers a cross

queen would envy? A salamander’s tongue,
a flirtatious yellow. Gone from South America,
quit from cage and canopy.
A violent thief, a trespass of sunshine.

I dream of a Chinese Poet
and his wife. They are asleep while carp
idly swim in a blue-blanketed pond.

Words are harvested like irises
that lift their petals to a mountain breeze.

All night, I will wade in their river.
Language, lush and solemn, scuttles
like crawfish under a rusted can.

I nudge a smooth stone with my toes.
I chase coins dropped into their water,
the color of carp, the color
of chrysanthemums.

All night, heat creaks through our pipes,
lulling spiders, displacing dust.

Laurie Byro