I .
Among
twenty
snowy
mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
Twenty
ashen faces
Searched for answers across the
banquet table
But
the only moving thing
Was
the fly in the General's consommé
II
I
was of three minds,
Like a tree
In
which there are three blackbirds.
Three
plump sausages lay sputtering in
the pan
Like
the three fat fingers that the
Duchess of Cornwall used
To
measure out her share of the
king's whiskey
III
The
blackbird
whirled
in the autumn
winds.
It
was a small part of the pantomime.
The
chef whirled the liver and herbs
A hair
from his moustache
Was a
small part of the pâté
IV
A
man and a woman
Are one.
A
man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
At two
minutes past two
The
bacon was done
And
exactly two seconds later
It was
burned beyond recognition
V
I
do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or
the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or
just after.
I
don’t know which I prefer
The
Black Butte Porter or the Old
Peculiar
But
I’d trade a whole case of either
For a
single bottle of Boston Lager
VI
Icicles
filled
the
long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An
indecipherable cause.
Popsicles filled the children’s
mouths
With
red dye # 40
The
sticks
Clutched in their fingers
Dripped high and low
The
juice
Made
in the carpet
An
unremovable stain
VII
O
thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do
you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of
the women about you?
Oh,
you think Chef Pierre is odd, do
you?
Haven’t you seen Chef Burgess
Walking around
On
those two bread sticks
He
dares to refer to as legs?
And
the feet
My God
The
tiny, tiny feet!
VIII
I
know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In
what I know.
I know
the finest wine
Its
bouquet and nose
But I
know, too,
What
happened last Saturday
When I
had but one glass more
Than
my usual
IX
When
the
blackbird
flew out of sight,
It
marked the edge
Of
one of many circles.
When
the waiter walked out of sight
It
marked the edge
Of one
of many puddles.
X
At
the
sight
of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
At the
sight of a porterhouse
Frying
in Crisco
Even
the cooks at Denny’s
Would
cry out in anguish
XI
He
rode
over
Connecticut
In
a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In
that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
He
drove across Yucatan
In a
rented Monza
Gripped by the terror
That
he should be forced to eat
At a
roadside stand
XII
The
river
is
moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
The
red post is sticking out
The
turkey must be done
XIII
It
was
evening
all afternoon.
It
was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In
the cedar-limbs.
I was
nauseous all afternoon
I'd
been hurling
And I
was about to hurl
The
shepherd's pie
Lay
Like a
hairy throw rug
On the
Green
Ceramic
Tiles
