from Clangings
Back on my wings, wings became me.
I banked, broke, beside myself. Besides,
honeysuckle sang, and brooked words
overran beds of pebbles, but see?—
no meadow. Never was a meadow.
Lots of long division, and times tables
where once there were standing pools.
If you played into them you got polio.
Polished glass wading downstream,
oaks barked spells, and hexed books
cracked, spine-open. Those are facts.
None of that sailor-ruby-sky eventime.
Red robin, red robin, bash again, again
against my window, feathers in flame
—a fireman’s?—to get in. Or be calm.
With lunatic squires in your bloodline,
your beak-and-pockings won’t open
more living room. You’re so enamored
of mates you don’t know your mirrored
yew from yew. So bloody your reflection.
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