Outside the dust beyond one window. Outside,
room & wall, divides, harrowed by harsh pruning
American Wisteria hangs purple hearts on limbs
with a certain liberty, expected blooms
& Robins breed Thrush in sprigs of wood & leaves--
a fragile abundance. They seem
like invitees drawing home on the customary
calendar day, caught in current results, not realising
the perpetual danger of adjoining yards.
For some of us, their ritual returns affiliate well
with our guilt & apathy. Ever-gray-skies, gauntlet
daily drizzle, delighting us like frown-dials.
& Yet the fledgling weight of gravity in grass
more heavy than the claws of cats allow,
graves the lifted eyes
against reluctant will.
Though not
symbolic of our death: they are ethereal
as our resurgence, versus sins of deeper fault--
year--after--year. Again & again, they return
& yes the costly innocence, flowers briefly
above the lifeless shine
—brilliant blues hide, behind a sun & season
of abstracted days. They are & their barrage
continues in each stab of breast--& the pardon,
is & was, undoubtedly will be,
the indelible-persistence of birds swallowed-up
between a Bush Wolf's teeth,
an amnesty in bones.
& when they claim this peace, no God steps forth
with laurel wreaths. The Robins are not Saints.
The rainbow ends—fictitious.
Today it's rather quiet. Today there's merely war.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
they say I can't applaud this poem.
Great poem.
); if you break L2 after sprigs it may have better tension. While I see people commend enjambment decisions: I see no reason to start a new stanza after "they seem". Essentially the next line is part of same view. 
23 old applause
