the immortal bird is vague yet feverish as decades
and to the dervish of leaves
there is a mirror blackened white
eye by eye by eye as if I were rubble
what stony rattle of fear
on the flowers of quiet tongues
for the rain on Asian Mountains
I am my own flaxen ruins
then in a lurching shadow seems
there is no shall in the nodding of leaves
I come to in the hedges of night
if only I could make my water weather
how the shuddering bones of the haunted
angels to toilets a reflection of love
mudbanks the earth's alligator rags I am
for a stoop of deciduous laughter
to the darkest goldenrod in the world
the lightning and ash bird of my language leaves
to scratch a shadow its silence
appears from shore to shore the way
there is an ocean in every bit of flesh
only a few confetti caves
making every channel shriek in purple
dust in the whispers of room
that's for me a mud and feather home
leaves wings trunk and jewel of fire
smoke cannot explain my records are metaphors
beyond mirror and mantlepiece
and the correspondence of stones or twigs
to the dark air in every lit ear
or the dead bird in every living


--Scott Keeney