LIKE RILKE

Calling on an angel like Rilke
embalmed in a mid dream flight
of a cross-examined poetry
when lost in a parental storm
pressed by a mirages space
outside a tiny strange room
practicing my scales
about the recital riffs
of a first alto sax soloist
hearing church vespers
of those monks who return
from sleeping in the desert
now barricaded in prayer rooms
by a snowy mirror of stars
through cool long corridors
of a sound proof studio
by a constant metronome
of my fingered exercise
moving me to tears
the air assaults the island sky
with a dizzy rain
not far from my home
taking a November night's
chance at science
with a flicker of my wide palm
at a telescope in silence
from shadowy windows
to peer at the blood moon
outside the harvest fields
entangled in a pumpkin muffin
taken in the last light of sunset
as a songbird rests politely
by the lowered bridge's iron gate
near a wellspring marble statue
on the first icy draped branch
an anonymous poet waits with
a frosty glass of green tea
thirsts for a late Fall's pond
to skate as in childhood
as a wagon of hay riders
draws in my landscaped eyes
over the fallen red leaves
of a fallen birch tree branch
with my initials scrawled
from an adolescent crush
as an echo of dissonant winds
motions the sea breeze
as small exiting island birds
who love to circle and chatter
stake their nesting place
above the Cape's river bed.