Brimming the trees with song
they flood July, spill over into
August pulsing lovecries,
cicadas here—one that
our cat brought me lay, legs folded
neatly, on clear wings as on a shroud, green
and white, fizzing now and then,
but when I threw it spread
wings and zagged in a wide curve into
the sweetgum tree where presently
its dry buzzsaw whined for some
significant other to auger down
into dark dense earth and gnaw at
the roots of things,
sans eyes, sans wings, sans
song for seventeen years or so.
As daylight sharpens, deer slip back
into the woods. I wonder what a deer,
when danger grows too bright,
makes of a world whose darker,
truer memories in ear
and nose must solve the dazzle of
our alien eyes, more surgical
at stripping off its cover, at masking selves
as downwind leaves.
I’ve read somewhere the claim, by computer people,
that pain cannot be felt
has been achieved, and they had programmed in
that level, so they said, of artificial pain.
In A. R. Luria’s book The Mind
of a Mnemonist, the man infallibly
remembered everything, but all perceptions
were unlike ours. Hearing, he tasted: sweet, bitter,
salty; heard neon colors; rough or silky, icy or
bloodwarm words: laid them like eggs aside on streets
his memory walked stolidly along,
walked back to get them when he needed to.
—Forgot, once, a word;
had set it carefully beneath a lamp
whose bulb was burnt out.
Bud opens and
is marigold, bird touched
by sunlight sings,
I am. Still,
as the old man put it, coming out
into the light we wawl
and cry. I wonder,
in this darklit galaxy,
how that song is heard.