Walden Pond, Piedmont Drive

When the birds flew from the grass
along the side of Piedmont Drive,
I knew there was a poem in there.

I knew that within the core of the birds
were lines of words strung together
like cocaine on a table.

The party is clear.
The party is white.
The party is life.

And we are fluttering like
a businessman’s heart on a corner
street in Harlem, his limousine
slowing almost to a stop
around the corner.

We are all fluttering hearts like birds
traveling from this cybernetic ecology
to another. Neither of us nor this
metaphor can hide from civilization
any longer, exposed, nude,
babushka-created by clothes
and houses and governments and gods.

Let the birds dissipate.
They are a poem,
their lines both still
and fluid like life’s meaning.