Sunday, June 11, 2017

Between Bird

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

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