Poem #336 of 365

Whizzing around my house is that flying thing
which you might call a bird.

But inside that bird, with its cardboard beak
and construction paper wings,
is another thing,
itself a flying creature
of smaller bulk,
and perhaps even that thing
is a facsimile of something
that it cannot ever be, and what lies within
is something smaller yet,
with wings of its own
that flap in darkness
and perhaps in light,
and it, that thing on the inside
of the inside
of that fake flying bird
in my house, is what i want
to identify
for what it could be:

The greatest creature of love,
or maybe
the strangest creature of evil,
or perhaps it is both at once.

When it stops gliding over our heads,
when it makes a choice to land,
then we shall all know and recognize.

I trust that it is a good thing,
an honest animal,
which merely plays strange
under a sheath of paper and twine.

It is only teasing to be cute,
and hopes soon
to share in an amicable bond,
here in my parlor of laughter and passion.

I succeed at removing masks
from preening creatures,
who long to finally show
their true faces of love, of goodwill.

We will stare at length into
each other's blinking,
unadorned eyes,
as the windows open,
and there is a moment to spring free.


copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez