Apr/May 2009 Poetry

Two Poems

by David Oestreich

Muse, Incognito

You will not find Epiphany
among the trees. The maples,
lifting bony fingers to the sky,
make no revelation; their
black eyes are blank, the dark
scrolls of their hearts, empty.
The wind's voice runs like a skink
through the leaves, upon
the bluff face, unintelligible
as the lichen hieroglyphs which
mark each stone. The moss
is wool, pulled down tight.
Others have sought her here;
their manic laughter echoes
in the woodcock's call. Still,
she will come, now, in this
moment between breaths,
but in no vision, with no voice
beside your own.



This is a shy and backward
little dragon, drawn from its lair
beneath a smooth, flat stone
amid the slower currents
of a nameless stream;
its tender hide is mottled
brown and black, the claret gills
two plumes of flame
flared in perpetual inhale—
a fire which, but for water,
would soon extinguish.


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