A.E. Stallings

Hoopoe is the thingWith feathers, and a crest,Or else a thing with feathers,Striped wings, and tawny breast.*(I never saw a hoopoe –Unless I was alone –Except some interloperTook out their telephone.)*Because I could not stopTo watch the hoopoe, heMade his gentle Poe-Poe-PoeOf incredulity.*Maybe it’s a loophole –Or maybe I’m a dope:I never met a hoopoeAnd did not...

The wilted season: peacocks drop their tails,The vines drop leavesAnd wear a bunch of raisins on their sleeves.The scoured sky pales.

Cicadas grate and grate the airLike pencil sharpeners. HopeShrinks like a bar of soap.The sea’s ten-thousand-league long stare

Goes on, unblinking. Things are badElsewhere, I know. It’s hard to writeKnowing it is no way to fight.It’s easier to be...

The Knight’s Maze, Eastnor CastleFor John

Our teenagers turn kids again, amazedBetween tall hedges, planted to confound.They race ahead to the unknown, unfazedTo meet with cul-de-sacs, and turn around.

Between tall hedges planted to confound,Retracing steps – no cell phones and no map –They meet with cul-de-sacs, and turn aroundLaughing. We follow, part and overlap,

Retracing...

Autumn cyclamen,booby-trapping underfootlike a mistimed spring,

clutch of shame’s blushes,flock of flamingos balancedon slender stemware

or mad flight of hats,magenta origami,by Schiaparelli,

above ground, you standpoised as flames on candlewicks,but under earth I

know you’re a heavydark mass, circular tuber,a flat severed breast

like a loaf of bread,toughened and covered in...

Without it, what is lemon, what is mint? –Coffee and chocolate, caffeinated brown.Ghosted by a sense that takes no hint,I feel let down.

It’s hardly tragedy that I can’t tellThe milk’s gone off, eggs rotten. It’s no jokeWith other things though – no internal bellThat signals smoke

(The toast burned or the house on fire). SweetI have, and bitter, I have sour...