by Carl James Grindley
There is a type of honesty in distant
Birdsong, plaintive, openly colorful,
Spectacularly desperate, horny
To the point of irritation, a type of music
That even the artless must love
Or hate. Yes, another spring has
Begun, just as wet as the last one,
Just as wet as the one that will follow—
This is the image of you with green
Eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes with flecks
Of gold and hazel, this is the image of you
With black hair, with red hair, shorter
Taller, younger or older than you are,
Were, ever will be—this is the image of you,
Still at the window seat, carefully peeling
An orange forever, reading Wordsworth
Because of the way his words feel
As they drift across your tongue,
Reading Wordsworth forever.
Carl James Grindley grew up on an island off the West Coast of Canada, and studied in the US and Europe. He has taught creative writing at Yale University, and works at The City University of New York. His book Icon was published in 2008 by No Record Press. He has recent work in Apocrypha & Apostrophe, Anemone Sidecar, A Bad Penny Review, Eunoia Review, Anastomoo and Atticus Review. Grindley is a founding editor of The South Bronx Review.
photo by FelixJLeupold.