My Private Phoenix

Precious cobbled thing! –
reconfiguring a small clay pot –
nestled in silk cloth –
conglomerated bibelot
about which
something in the soul
decides to sing –

for urgent need of song.
Stray Christmas ornament
gone wrong – redeemed, re-won,
recaptured and made fit for May –
all day – all year –
I shall salute my private Phoenix
here. He knows there is no

antidote to pain
except to reign – aflame –
over a longing heart as if
its longing were a subterfuge
for some much lovelier, more
secret art. He nestles now,
before he rises,

fragile brittle glittered creature,
featured player
in this huge and layered moment
of which – dear, lost everyone
who’ll hear me! –
we and he are each

and indispensably a part.

.