“No Phoenix Dotes”
No phoenix dotes, no albatross may linger long. The quail need fear
For nothing in the night, nor dove the eagles of the day
In precocious queues while the leaders speaking parables say
Whatever comes to mind, a finale of raw anticipation in arrears.
There are in any year those misnomer’d festivals, ferial seasons
Cut adrift by aimless circumstance and accidental chance,
A shameless perversion of the odds while a glance
To the right or left reveals clarity and reasons
Raised beyond the calculations of malicious minds.
Eagles discover indolence and periodic indifference outright.
When the winds gesture favourably in arcs of artificial light;
Above the here and now, pleasure ssurely seek its kind,
And well within the breech, parameters of careless joys soon
Dilute the fearsome images of bloodstained wolves and owls,
beneath a panoply of nocturnal props and playthings of the moon.