Chana Bloch


“What kind of bird is that twittering now?”
I ask through the window,
all big-city innocence,
and you tell me:
a frog.

As for these birds tugging rubber
worms from the lawn,
or that tree, that immense rooted
let's put the trees back 			 
in marriage.

The day you seduced
a field of cows in your best
bull's voice.
One by one they ambled up,
swaying their comfortable udders.

If this is the world,
we are the only ones in it,
naming the animals, finding
a language. Look
how it comes out,
the ripe apricot of the sun,
like a child's crayoned God.

I am hanging wash on the line.
Our sleeves
wrap me in love.
Like Adam in his first
you come out
and pee in the garden.