DEMETER AT THE EDGE

Spring arrives in jolts
of yellow

fields hollered with dandelions

a goldfinch dips
in and out of grief

shocks of forsythia bursting
from the roadside

it’s alarming
all this yellow

this accumulation of yellow

which
if color can be said
to have a point

I suppose this
is exactly it

how caution tape outlines
something we may not be prepared
to witness

its brightness marking the perimeter
of what's irreparably lost

the unbearable fact
of a crater
ringed by wildflowers

that this hellhole
is also a door

that it dares to be so beautiful

INEFFABLE WIND

It wasn't what you'd call a breeze.
Not a gust or squall even.
It had more substance than that.
It was round and uninterrupted
somehow high and everywhere
all at once. From our lookout
we could feel its cool unearthly
tentacles gently wipe our faces,
each thought disappearing further
inside the labyrinth of its voice.
Obliterated, our eyes followed
our ears to the paparazzi of leaves
left shook and shimmering in its wake.
How far could the invisible reach?
Where did its sound begin to end?
Was it vanity prying our mouths wide
enough to speak such emptiness
into the lush roar of afternoon?
Who knows, the wind would say,
hands deep in its velvet pockets.
The world is more than we can ask.

GIVING HEAD TO ORPHEUS

Like an instrument of joy,
every inch is elegy.

Palms pressed to my skull
he goes on singing
with eyes closed.

He goes on crying
a new world
from the same lament

my knees burning
in praise of life’s terror.

I suppose this is how we learn
in the language of salt
to speak of the ocean.

When he finally let's go
I see his face open
into every vowel at once.

When the song finally breaks
it's my voice sings through his.

David Feinstein is the author of the chapbook Tarantula (Factory Hollow Press) and Woods Porn (No, Dear / Small Anchor). His poems have been featured in Biscuit Hill, Windfall Room, and Best American Poetry. He lives and works in Amherst, MA.