Common Poorwill Poem by Hugh Steinberg

A nice shirt, drying on the line, describing shadows, cracks; earwigs
curl in the folds. We are dubious the poor will get one flannel waistcoat.
Or birds that hunt from the ground, flying up to capture prey a kind of nostalgia.
They are made of holy water and whatever they touch is safe from violence.
I want to be known and not just stuck in the heads of people. Even when nothing is veiled
a common poorwill declares in the dark I am valueless only when I suck up to people with more
power than me.
Post-heroic celebrating anything that allows pursuit the same thing twice but the order wrong I
look so pretty when I get in a fight or
not a wall anywhere to hold our ceiling up, I won't say anything until I'm spoken for.
A small nightjar sleeping, a white ring around her throat, a container of the outside, a sign saying
so, a sign making you well.
Put the sky into your marriage sings the common poorwill, and I will rest on the windquiet side
of a broken hill.
An order of adjectives that won't undo. The thin glass of a lightbulb
that lets enough light through. Crave fiery clouds, get headlights instead of you.