Four poems by B.J. Wilson

Nocturne


the mockingbird calls on

summer moons too


its white throat’s perfume dusting privet blossoms


under the nightshade


as if glazed in a lamination


of snow


Southern nights still cool and recovering


from wisteria:


vines thick as the sweetness of its lavender


precise as the spider


within the lemony petals of each magnolia


and here comes


mockingbird


with the most rowdy of night offices


waking us out of


this dream





Moon Shadow