John Isles


                                                Here I am—

of two minds: all eyes—all ears—for the Echo
of myself.

                              Driving into the western sunset,
who is not gold and mining? Who is not a piece of one,
son-like in that way?

                              I call you mine and I am yours.

The tree-lover becomes a tree, wooden and breathing
in reverse, giving my livelihood away.
Green and leafing canopy for the heard, I wear
leaves with my skin,

                              tear them off with my eyes.

A bird flies over and I am birdbrained
and precocious, flying before my time.
I marry a bird, swallow it for its song, the vibrations—

the singing I am.     The bird and its flying,
small-time creators, leave me with nothing
to stake a life on.

                              I stake a life on this.

In the sun too much,
charioteer and burning in my father’s shoes,
I call the whistling air, My Lady of Arcady.

© 2005 Electronic Poetry Review