Kathleen Peirce Birthday Eve

Is it luscious there? Nightless, dayless,
one made as a parallelogram is made, with no part
not itself? Regardless, a visitor in visitor’s quarters
must come to the door, and soon. First,
flex against an amnion ripe with angels
singing with their breasts exposed, impossible to know
as what red is, though all will be glazed
and caught by reddening tomorrow, uncountable
angels with their breasts revealed, milk-heavy,
all the bottles empty, resting on their sides,
the singing to return again inside the voices
heard submerged inside a lake in time, as one comes
to understand the peacock’s feeling, opening out its tail
of faces started in an infant’s eggs, O effortless animal,
O fruit-foot, O oblong, crown-down form
so roped to form for good.


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