The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Alicia Hoffman





Black arrow, darting.


Feather and fulcrum,

crux of wingspan.


Upon the white

scaffold of winter,

your negative flares


as cameras shutter

and flash.




Black darling, sparrow.


Skeletal map of frailty.


Silk-boned roadmap

to a pea-stone heart.


Between a newborn

forefinger and thumb


you would succumb

to the faintest grip.




And there are no maps

to track this flight.


No sketches to trek,

no spots to x.


Instinct, then.

Intuition, if we trust it.




Birdbrains, we


use so little and

waste so much.

You see, we like
to fire into dark.

We like to match

points, strike


to even scores.


Birdbrains, we

are stars




We burn

even though

we've gone out.


Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication