I built another bird with cages within—
some level of amusement—
a private glow.

These cold days and the magpie catches my eye still;
marvel of my creation—I can hear its hinges creak,
which the unobservant mistake
for a caw.

I watch it scavenge—a consequence
of careless programming—
too busily loving my tinker-hands
ticking the gears and springs
into place.

Someone once said, God loves a flywheel,
and that is the only god I can believe in.
Loud cries for grease—a prayer
unless the voice is so lovely in song
that even the sweet-whispered snow,
the long-breathed whistle of grasswinds
is no competition for the divinity of an ear

—though I have it to spare, I cannot bear oil.