A green finch takes a liking to our Callistemon |
already cozied up to sun & rain.
The finch | itches its beak | nibbles insects
& pollen dusts its feathers when it scoots
from branch to branch— from this distance the blooms
resemble lobster pincers | provide ample
cover & keep the famished tabby cats at bay
—there’s no Romanticism for that bird
only the rotary of struggle | it knows
no adjective to discuss the pleasures of flight |
its xylophonic vocals | good for an annual fuck
—the remainder of the year serves as beck
n’ call | alarm to warn his own of predators nearby.
& what we feed the air spins in his brain
the size of a walnut | the chaff filtered
with a diaphanous beat | the talent
of lungs no larger than a kidney bean.
The finch never reminisces that time
its brother got its head stuck in a Pepsi™ can
& suffocated high on processed sugar
—nor when its nest was ransacked
by magpies | who slurped the yolk
of its seed clean from the calcified womb.
There is no past for it to ponder |
no mind to give matter to a past | only successive now.
i’ll leave this fat worm clinched with a paper
clip to the 2nd brush on the left | that really red
one sharing the tip— an easy meal | a little rest.
To purchase Isacoustic volume 1 featuring poetry by me & a spectrum of other fine poets click here.