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Nightingales

Yes I know what it’s from, and so do you,

when after some bird makes a sound outside

you speak of drowsy numbness, and I shoo

the thought away and claim the thing that cried

is day’s lark, warming up to travel far.

So carve your chicken, talk to someone else;

our words are getting friendly at the bar,

our legs are making finite parallels….

And is it strange, this cluttered way of talking?

I’ve always been a sucker for the charms

of influence, benigner form of stalking.

So many clothes you’d think us free from harms!

But layers bring a fine heat, not a numbing.

Now pass the wine and keep the good lines coming.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Poems Rachel Wetzsteon

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Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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