A Blind

A blind of green

cedar, the branches cut just

at the changing of bands

(wood for wind, frond for trill,

logistics for lizard, scale for scale—

because the lineages

love Linnaeus, he’s the

rex’s lex), which leaves ourselves

an eyehole for the world,

after the weaving of one

over other and other

on one. Once it’s built

it’s a blind

sort of date. It’s a nest with a mind

for a critter inside. And its charms

have a punch. And its hunches

have arms.

I saw it clearly then

at seven, in a Woolworth’s floral aisle,

an aisle of plastic greenery, the moment that

the momentary struck me. There I stood

stock-still and swore

I’d never let it

leave my mind, I’d

nail it once and for all.

I grasped what I was

in the clutches of#8212;a species

of unkindness, beating

at the brow. From then on,

then would have to be

forever known as now.