The Skin of Meaning. Keith Flynn

dragon scarf folded out of Saigon’s

      final chaos, slowly lose their luster, or complicated

      memory, as the generations stand at attention

      in the roll call of deplorable time.

      The clusters of music, whose muscles cannot

      outlast the marathon of styles, are layered

      era upon era, sparkling melodies recycled

      by attentive geologists digging through

      the stacked boxes in the attic or the basement.

      Let the wan night, even when wintered,

      fight the gauze of nostalgia and give refuge

      to every fire, the future freshened,

      and hard run sharpened against

      the only path found, signpost labeled

      what is to come, what is to come, what is to come.

      If it takes the lives of twelve bees to make

      a teaspoon of honey, why is it so absurd to believe

      that our bodies are composed entirely of light?

GREAT BLUE HERON

       for Amanda

      Unable to extricate

      itself from the silver

      flash of trout

      the spirit of the river

      the great blue heron

      its head shaped

      like a rock hammer

      stalks the brooking edge

      on spindly stilts

      and braids his hunger

      into the oncoming

      and infinite curl

      of brisk mountain water

      before the twin flames

      of wings spread

      without warning

      and lifts the whole

      giant jumble of sticks

      and feathers silently