Today's poem is by Henry Hughes

Phoebe
       

I fly to you, Phoebe,
picking ants from counter spills
of sweet vermouth, willow
kissing, pinching

spiders off gauzy panes
in the empty theatre
where we mask
for fun, pressing the dark rafters
with our molting.

Surprised to see me wintering in the park? —
flycatcher lean and sorry-winged.
You know my call, my want you

under the car-thumped bridge.
Mud-stucco us a nest, and I'll sing you fat
with twisted bees. Lay white eggs
and stay bird with me.

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Copyright © 2024 Henry Hughes All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission