Chicagoetry: Loon

Loon

Death lurks, not looming.
Breath is a fender
Protecting the works.
Breath

Is a boon, my beloved,
A watchful loon
On a slender heath
Offering no surrender,

The same loon
From a hundred zen koans
Holding vigil

In the shimmering gloam.
Or a fat crow

In a cornfield,
Settled content
On a slanted scarecrow

(Each a crucifix
In grunge).

Death lurks
Like a coward,
Betrays paucity
In its cowering,

Slave to fate,
Chance and kings.

Death lurks in tree shade
And alley shadow,
In eaves and in drains,
In each drop of rain.

On the trains, in
"Unattended packages
Or suspicious activity."

Life is a lark,
The same lark
From a hundred

English pub signs,
Spry and spirited
Given adequate provender.
Breath is wealth.

Death works around
The spring bloom and flirts
With the demi-gods
Through autumn's gloom.

Best lean into
The inevitable
Crowing, larking

And looning.

Death lurks.
Breath is wealth, joy
And tender swoon.

Breath is the burst of it,
An explosion of grace,

A stark moonbeam
In the frosty gloaming,

Though it miss the loon,
Skirt the crow

And hit the lark.
Life booms!

Breath is king.
Death is nothing.

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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood's poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.

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