Between the oriole's house
and infinity
nothing intervenes.
Literally,
it hangs among the stars;

the arc of an elm bough
is its vast orbit;
the wind lifts it from
Perseus' Helmet
to the dim nebulae

beyond Orion. Each night's
voyage of light-years
stretches far out
its twig-snap-tenure,
its teetering at

doom's delicate edge.
Thus orioles dwell
also at World's End:
Separate but equal,
their astronomical mortgage.











By permission of the author.