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Ghazal of Birthdays

Drury, John

The fruit flies celebrate constantly, getting drunk on nectar,

crowding the salad bar, having sex on the aluminum brink.

The light or dark is the same, as if Monet had painted studies

of the hospital, baby after baby, wet gowns and shining forceps.

Who needs a diamond ring when we have the circulatory system

and a network of nerves like a calling circle of friends?

Somebody circled a blank square on the calendar

but wrote nothing inside, maybe the surprise of nothing.

Amazement at the sun behind clouds, the harp of light bands,

the coronation ode of this moment, driftwood at sea.