Elizabeth Zuba

Flight of the brown-headed cowbird

The ear-cup turns like a pause we
close our hands and shake on it
one hand says current

the other parabola triumph
like a lima bean bends the field

green and unearthly white
bone breakfast along side the moon

What arcs aloud almost covered in dirt?

What covers the dirt and almosts from the arc?
Anyway the light
no light weight decides it
          all byways

loose in a magnetic blowhole
something shudders
up in the tree

angling its mirrors to trick the brain
the way you relieve the gnaw of a phantom limb

and by seeing it again at last break the code

up up
in the tree a small egg no larger
than a grain of sand.




Expansion: running from one

Before the paperbloom, the dot
before the dot, the white
picture, before the white

picture, its reflection in the donut
hole in the mirror we potted
for just such occasions
we scored either——pieces——

or——small incongruous crystal figures——
never know I'm grateful until
I'm gone, mercury
on the potter's wheel

two hands to pull up the edge
is longing from the other side
sprung from the most ordinary

in the sugar dish erupting
quietly, depth
because our skin is a surface that imagines
within.  Like a root skein improvising, we
build a bird's nest with a window
in the middle, for motes

below the peeling walls
a tea house floor, marigold
orange churns the history of everything

rotating at an equal distance from nothing
was, a nasal exile
slid from two bowed strings

or my finger and thumb
rubbing loose the fragrant oils.




Poem with complimentary hair-pick

Soft quills comb over the airholes protect
small creatures
         the folds of grass.

You're bound to see
one on a clear day
heave your puckered body with its wings

press air to beak

part a perfect cast
the perfect

light that lips
         smiles of old photographs.
                  a: Field!

                            b: No, Night! I tell you, the threshold must capitulate.

                   a: Impossible! It is by nature, a merging.
                            b: You say, but any mean must be found by division.

                  a: Little matter to the toads!

                            b:  Blink thistle a red leaning.

                  a: Out on one
                            back on the other!

                     An eye cupped to the trunk to see the trees self-graft.




German for move with one hand high
and air purls

fingertip behind it      a learning curve
plied from miniature bee batting

gray slickers over their disappearing
miniature outlines
like convex words that make by echo:

whorl of gas dust denser metal
          blues: a being what they wanted to see

hey another one

you planted your sticker tree where you can see
the open teeth sun
          wheel the gears

all of a sudden now
I remember over butterfly
how you bent

          your whole body over
soaring at the artifacts of unexpected water.