Cuckoo Flower
Will Cordeiro
I fold the injured bird
inside my dinner jacket.
A week’s foxglove rummaged
where a wayside’s tucked it.
I admire your love-smock.
All things suggest themselves.
Afterwards, untie the clock’s
hands. Wipe off the umbrage
from each utensil. The stocks
unscrew, the boxes tumble
stuffed out, stuck in with mauve
tissue paper. Sheets obnubilate.
Clouds scour: miracles of mucilage
where mirrors fudge their residue.
