Sunday, June 11, 2017

Between Bird

By the good drumming, harlequin drumming,
you know the pileum sail, the torch head
storied wood and shade are flummoxed at, this
coat hook and door knock, rising giddy trill,
speeding up the dead tree rot, piercing bill,
tilting tomahawk athwart, at home in
vertical axis planes, listening
to timber cores, close to the crevices,
crasher to fans of the firs, with tittering
wings and strange aim, messy and meticulous,
proves no place his gauntlet who pocks
the skulking grubs from dark: larval tweak and peck
his chip-tossing labour; his dynamic neck
like Rublev's Savior, suppleness uncontested:
the flex of freedom he calls singly from
an unbreakable bridge between heart and head.

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