Nathanael Tagg

Clover and Cage


           My reality
grasp? "Shaky," says the inkblot
           test I take online—

           "Firm," the second time.
White clover is the popcorn
           a deity spilled,

           leaning to her date,
whispering, "Calm in crisis,

           Flowers are composed
by Philip Glass, repeating—
           loved, yes, and despised,

           called cosmic secrets
until dead silent. The smell—
           cuttings—it lingers.

           A red flying fox
bat, I fly low where wings fight
           neither wings nor wind.

           Then, stuck on a barbed
wire fence like a broken kite,
           I chew on the snags.

           Plump with tree flower,
I dream of others, the roost—
           guano skeleton.

           An anole, I
ram my reflection—to me,
           another lizard

           until I distend
my red throat fan, turn all brown
           from green, shed my tail,

           scuttle from this cage,
and find I apparently
           hold it in my hands.