Two Poems by Alan Britt
MERCURY

A Warm Springs Apache
rides across the gun metal sky.
The cicada
is a black flute
between
the eyes
of Apache Grandmothers,
when several
Grandmothers
rattle at
the same time.

But death as a
common viper
turns out,
is no match
for hand-blown European test tubes
filled with mercury.

A FEW MINUTES WITH "THE TYGER"

You can never rewrite "The Tyger,"
but you can drink
its energy.

In my midnight yard
the Tyger's paws of mist
are therapy on the shoulders
of forsythia.

The mist
which slowly rallies
into fog
resembles
the lungs of creation,
fueling the diaphanous wings
of teal dragonflies.

On lonely afternoons
school children mount
the shimmering backs
of these glorious dragonflies,
then sail away
on these tiny angels
of imagination.

Alan Britt