What language does war speak, that whips
dew-moistened jasmines to their fall?

What filaments spin from its tongue, that weaves
a dangerous brocade of diplomatic shawls?

Why are the birds so suddenly quiet?
Were they swallowed in their blue?

By hunting night cats over the roofed tiles
moving along earth's folds
with tempting curvatures,

determined

they spill intoxicating nocturnal perfume
and mother of pearl
at the wings of sleeping sparrows.

I sit by the edge of a fading medley of songs
my light, a mirror away from my shadow.

O, to soar behind the moonlight!
...to get lost...

 © 2003 Minerva Bloom
Excerpted from the Anthology

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