Days of the Heron

In the days
of mumbling saucepans
and sanity,
I was a heron,
drinking down dirty daydreams
and lavender teas,
slurping loudly
through my pointing bill
in coffee shops
while the regulars stare,
squawking out stories
on the subway,
ruffling my
untamed and unframed feathers
like the jostling sounds of newspapers
by the old grey men scrounging round for
the stock market stats
and sports scores.

I tend to creep
in and out of people’s habits,
smuggled in with the groceries:
cinnamon toast and juicy grapefruit,
standing awkwardly
in the cobweb corners of rooms,
watching contagious
hearts bleeding in rhythm,
then slip softly
between the window panes of
dark purple bedrooms
with swords hung on the walls,
red dining room spaces
where the piano sits,
uncaressed for years,
yellow kitchenettes
collecting dust on the picture frames
of happy faces by way of trips to the park
on a fourth of july,
and moldy peppers
in the bottom door of the refrigerator.

and if I could just
be held by the night,
it sinking in between
my shivers
till the yawning dawn.
I took myself
away from here,
in the eerie morning hours,
after getting out from under purple fleece covers
and giving up on sleeping.
Careful tiptoes,
out the window,
face to the forest line
til she sings in my ear,
into the moon’s naked riptide,
inhaling one beautiful
burlesque breath,
exhaling storms of ice. 

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