from The Currency
For no reason at all this wren, this little mound
of pencil shavings. But what appears is too bleared,
too gray sluice of clouds covering the window
so the kitchen goes dim. So this wren eating beneath
scratches of juniper, of field grass, little mounds
of graphite in the beak. For no reason I let
the sauce simmer, the reduction gone syrup.
Then she enters, asking about the drawing, a turkey,
five fingers dragging a wind through the grass,
and the wren goes on with the little mounds of seed.
More questions arise about the timing, the meat of it,
the delicacy of a still, cold center. For no reason at all,
rosemary, Money Jungle, track “Fleurette Africaine,”
and the wren finds a hole in the rosebush,
while she places heavy plates in orbit around the table,
singing a wordless “Fleurette Africaine,” a little wren,
a little monster, sweet door in the rosebush.
For no reason at all a monster in the wren’s nest.