“The wound kills that does not bleed…”- Wallace Stevens
  
The mocking bird doesn’t fly,
Watches me circle and sing;
It won’t return my song;
Letting me first come close,
Closer than two feet,
Closer than ever before,
Suddenly gone.
Let go of this,
Return to the cultural Zeitgeist,
Ruin in every breath,
Awaiting the alien wave
Immigrant song’s lost home,
In this infectious land,
New promise-
Black mold on winter grain.
Later I see it again,
Not searching for its nest.
Stupefied in cold, intoxicant 
Back in the yard,
Attentively waiting,
Feeling the place.
“Your heart gives no new hope”,
She says,
”Only the same sad song-
Any could easily write”.
Not death
Though bitter words- 
Ensnare.
Awaiting the expatriate’s return, 
With certain untold tales
Of worlds unknown-
Pound the heart
Though hatred seeks to melt
Love raises this storm,
Its latest thunderclap
Shattering souls-
Little deaths,
Breaking open, 
Shearing the shared husk,
Falling away from seeds
Crying for sun and rain –
And the touch of 
Primordial Earth
Content to be reused,
Intercepting starlight
Sent out for this,
This blessing:
Light bleeds out light.

Otherwise:
I am riding 
The great American highway
Wanting too much, 
Counting cards,
Satisfied at random,
Incidental success,
Sharing our separate folly
Whose forgone conclusion incarcerates our memories,
Our shining mistakes
In a fallen world,
Where our only chance at healing 
Is by accepting scars.
Instead-
We hook up the trailer 
With its Adderall connection 
To the adrenaline loadstar,
Burn offerings
For a junk-food journey,
Dreaming of, praying-
For a final welcome mat
Spread at our feet
At the hallowed home 
Of our plaster Venus,
Prototype for the resin pour
In porn-star Eternity,
While peasants in the pop pavilion Praise her,
Full of cynical, 
Self-satisfied deprecation.
These calculated jests only prove
We have failed,
Or once again forgotten,
Or lost
What is always awful to lose.
Everyone, most, 
Someone, or no one thinks:
The other doesn’t understand
The Guileless need for absent love-
I feel this place,
This silence in song
This future memory 
In cold and empty now-
Some absolute ecstatic point,
Our shared allotment of paradise,
Counterpoint to all fears,
Warm movement 
In and out of time,
Light, like water moves,
Like breath,
To fill all space, 
Allay the darkness,
Where space itself is light and Darkness also,
The eye perceives,
Proceeds from visible light,
Detecting process as part,
Though I wander far,
In winter, cold and dark,
Warmth rises from the heart, Metabolizing air,
The Silence,
The place,
The man whistling,
Calling to the mockingbird,
That won’t fly away.

Stephen Hawks, born in Washington D. C., has lived most of his life in Georgia. He has training in art, music, and theater, an AA in theater from South Georgia College, a BFA from Valdosta State University and an interdisciplinary MFA, with a concentration in Ceramics from Florida State University. He was Resident Potter at Westville living history museum for 19 years and an independent artist for over 30 years. He is married to Nancy Sneed and they have two grown daughters. Currently, he oversees the Ceramics Program in the visual Arts Department at The University of Texas Rio Grande Valley on the Brownsville campus, and teaches Ceramics, Design, and Senior Exhibit Classes.

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