Michael Paul Ladanyi
Glass birds are green-blue traffics,
splinter-tin gods hanging from odd places.
If I brought to you a fire and breathed
a poison moon over it,
would you dance as these cool traffics?
Your clothes lost on carpet
are mountains and spiders,
cannibal songs living in exile
eating apple seed languages.
Open your lips to hip and kiss,
to spring off the shoulder behind
black mouths, drunk and drinking
with warring eye and kneading finger.
Harp-tow furniture of this room
is dumb against flesh of ghosts,
shiver and spit of mad men and women;
and all the glass birds are shut up
in wisteria landscapes.