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Poem
by Jilly Dybka


Palindromic Sestina

A woodpecker, with its racecar solos,
says hah hah hah against the level noon.
I scan the knit-ink trees with my kook-eye
until I find the peep. Aha.
I can see just what a radar sees:
a blip of a bird on the bark. All a

pop pop in the branches, all a
tat tat in the tree, its loop spool solos
do God. The woodpecker never even sees
his sylvan civic deed in the late petal noon.
Yet the tendered net of recognition says aha
through my brow-orb eye.

Now drawn inward, the deified eye
wondered now, at a
bird-rib. The flesh self. The aha
of alive. The bird's dew-wed solos
shine in the crass arc of noon
sun. What the drab bard sees.

The soul, a fool aloof, sees
through the wow-eye,
and woos the redder noon.
Don't nod. Be as careful as a
tenet in these woods. Bird solos
each air an aria. They sing we few. Here. Aha.

With the dual laud of aha
and oh, the soul, I and I, sees
The Messenger. Sweet solos
fill the ear and the mum-eye
speaks. A bird plays at a
reviver this tilt-lit noon.

Tennessee November noon
in the woods and the seer frees, aha.
We are as noose-soon as a
raw war. Until then, the soul sees
what the mirror-rim eye
will borrow or rob. A fog of solos.

Endless noon solos
emits time, all a eye.
Aha, the igniting I sees.