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Aria
Margaret Ronda
© 2008Portland Review Literary Journal

Shine without contour,
absence becoming
the scene, a kind
of unrecognition

or impatience.
As in a dream, where
the unlocatable
bird expands in song,

enfolds the street
you follow down,
no searching will
uncloister its red

mouth in your chest,
throat-flutter where
the stitch of the
hem came loose,

that face you can’t
find. You are
climbing inside
a ripped-up sky,

the light wrung
out.  The bird has no
wings: it can’t be
measured by the eye.