The American Redstart

I searched for the American Redstart.
I'd wasted time in the basement 
of dejection, inspecting flecks 
and sifting through ash.
The arboretum of unbridled hope 
was gone, like 8-track tapes
and darkrooms. The American Redstart 
had been known to frequent
the thicket behind my house.
I’d seen it once, but I dropped my skis 
and it vanished. Remnants of jade 
appeared in The Anthology of Dissolution, 
and somewhere a nephew coughed.
The American Redstart
is not the witch ball of indecision.
It’s an anchor of actuality
on a lush slope of figs.
It’s the honeysuckle of spark plugs
on an afternoon of transoms.
The chimney swift’s doctrine
confirms this. The spittle of disingenuous levees 
may be as inescapable
as the excommunication of reason, 
but I persist in my quest.
The adoration of pyrite
is no joke. The effluvium of boxwood 
contends with the fragrance of jasmine, 
but none of this will result
in the mortification of the monologue.
The nitrogen of brilliance 
cannot be verified objectively.
Yet such a sanctioning
is not required. Years ago
I praised the vertigo of skylarks 
as if that were the only thing.
Now, the drumstick of disbelief 
has been tossed to the crevasse 
of oblivious chatter. An oriole 
alights on my sill, and I salute it 
for its presence. Still, I persist
in my task like a monsoon of minivans 
en route to a zealous precinct.