White Bird
Baubles, trinkets, flashing lights,
thumping base from a passing truck
all woofer and no tweeter at distance
where, what, that we are,
dissolve in endless distractions.
Briefly ear or eye
then traces of memory speeding away
into enduring vacancy, we flash
beyond words, the sound and flesh of which
fade in and out.
We are what comes to us, the frames
of a truck’s speakers vibrating
against sounds it cannot hold
anonymous audience members at a ballgame
cheering because everyone else is
jumping, shouting, replaying.
A small white bird no bigger than an impulse
over a bowl of candy
climbs an invisible updraft
vertical, straight as a flagpole
until it breaks through appearing
and vanishes, as if never having been.
Don Brandis lives quietly outside Seattle writing poems. He has a degree in philosophy and a long fascination with Zen. Some of his poems have been published by Black Moon Magazine, Amethyst Review, Blue Unicorn, Leaping Clear, and others. A book of his poems is out – Paper Birds (Unsolicited Press, 2021).
Amethyst Review 