OVERTURE II

A crownéd Jay, late yesterday, in the spruce,

Thumped among the darkest inner fronds,

Furtive to hide some awkward piecemeal thing

Borne between his bright blue wing and bill.

The jay, I guess, screamed once, shrilly in a human voice,

And, then, caught up in sudden gusts of storm,

Vanished in the swirling maples of my neighbor's lawn.

After the great blue bird had flown beyond my care,

I found, clutched to the spruce's inner core,

The Sailor's arm. Then, wildwind tossed the tree

And rain, a rain of stunted pinecones pelted down.

I admit: the day before, I found beside the garden hose,

Stretched out behind the coral bells and thyme,

The Cowboy's thigh, and nearby, in the peonies,

Partly shattered on the grass beside the laurel,

The Poet's head. These hulks were not in marble

Nor was The Soldier's hurt and withering white hand.

Why do they return? I thought these men were dead.

Why do they return! Even this peaceful evening,

Snuffed out below the graceful chaliced rose, I found

The cruel Bigamist's angry black cigar.