"Words are not involved in this"
(another poem by Larissa Szporluk)

Yellow, Singing at Night

the bird, wound-up,
looks almost like a lemon being shot,

the piston in its body
pumping back and forth into a blur,

like a tide that won't retire,
but hovers in remembrance of its high,

or a legendary bottle,
wrenched with genius, in the sand

where mussels secrete
amethyst tones, and the very thin rain

is a wall falling loose
at the crypt, and the song in the throat,

not rendered to stir,
stirs somehow, like a trick-maneuver

of fate, reminding him,
the boy whose palm it rivets in,

that words are not involved in this,
nor life, nor aim.