Onion Cloud Form: acrylic on panel (ephemeral), 30 x 40 in. Celeste Goyer
Because They Hunger, They Take
Starlings have overtaken
the bird feeder.
They pass through this way
stay a few days then carry on.
Their metallic coats shimmer.
The heads of grass along the forest fringe
about to drop into womb
The mourning doves linger about
beneath the basket of seeds
waiting, discussing Dante
and economics, what poverty means
if it means anything
in a colony on the coast.
Waiting. And the starlings eat.
They eat it all.
That Passion is Also a Suffering We Have Forgotten
We place our trust in the absence anticipated.
The empty plate. A slow dissolution of guilt
after throwing stone against glass.
The farmers beyond this hill plant their seeds
almost hoping for drought
a reason to look upwards
feel the held in breath of galaxies
& withhold their existence
in exchange for a god
of air & money & the praise of lack.
We make allowance for the field
That it may be observed.
But to touch is to suffer.
Another coast. Land & water & their struggle.
A small storm beaten row boat.
Its wooden ribs exposed
to the consequence of every moment.
This pull of a moon
despite the distance
measured only in its pushing of water
high or low in and out. The terror of simplicity.
Its moorings finally worn through
the boat drifts
into the vast terror
of what feels like freedom
where a great and nervous god moves about.