ISSUE 5 · FALL 2010
How to Fall Down
The birds are unfixed furniture. Humming
wings spill ink on the canvas,
the floral abundance of the rock garden
drowned in the blood of a buckshot rainbow.
Two birds are the same bird.
And the third bird.
And the fourth bird’s miraculous needlework
conveys space to and from this panorama—
wings swing so quick as to seem
the folds of bedding accordioned
by morning sex.
Chromatic garden, green garden sacrificed
—and quiet trumped too—
by the confusion of
I either hear or don’t hear.
The colors are there. And maybe
the sweep of their falling in riffles of diced air
tasting of dust on my Geographic Tongue.
Maybe it’s still
silent, soon to be broken by
what I won’t need to strain
to think I hear.
There is rest in what is,
but no rest from what
might. The garden is peaceful and
at war (it’s going to happen).
The sky is peeled in jet trails by so many
birds, and trees, filled,
sing but (really)
Everything, always, at once:
The rainbow spills its death
over Natalie’s powder-pink
flowered stonecrop. All the birds
are the same bird and
sickened by what is about to—
the concrete hits hard.
Nathaniel Taggart is originally from Las Vegas but has spent most of his life in Utah along the I-15 corridor. He is a co-founder and editor of the semiannual poetry magazine Sugar House Review. His fingers are crossed in hopes that more of his poems are forthcoming in fine periodicals.