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Finch Holes: Poetry

Speculating on the meaning of birdsong

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a space inside me dedicated to your needs.

I am thick, like the grass above a grave. There is nothing

glamorous about recollection. This morning, a sparrow

visited our feeder. Its small ability, the way it leaned

in. We were all delicate once. I blame you for the chair

stranded in my mouth, for how I strain to hear

the bird’s gentle song. We rested but did not sleep,

arranged next to each other like trees. It turns out

I don’t know you very well. I see your quiet pleasure,

the way your slumber has nothing to do with me.

Let’s take a walk tomorrow, get lost in mutual

destruction. The track can contain our sorrow

and our desire, but not much else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by krwphotographic

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