Two Poems by David Devanny

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cabaret

 

is it haselwort – asarabacca growing

wild spikenard in the levant?

a tray of painted porcelain

in a kind of rush – old chum?

mad metropole parlour cirque

between compté and pinot noir or

pot house – booth – mythic wood and thatch

french version of taberna?

when jill says it’s a cabaret

it’s a cabaret

but when they say it’s a cabaret

it’s nothing like a cabaret

when jill says it’s a cabaret

it’s a cabaret

but when they say it’s a cabaret

it’s nothing like a cabaret

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tiny bird

 

his thick swollen old hands

slap cold feldspar giant

fingers moving too tectonic – in faults

to credibly transport it

and yet unclasp to reveal

the hatching egg

and produce no less than

this tiny bird

silly though – he’d brought the egg here

in his mouth of course

kept safe and temperate with breath

drawn in under his molars

and disgorged it into his cupped

hands in the carpark  

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by David Devanny