Punk rock sparrow

When the cats curl up on either side of the pile of clothes

it is quiet, I do zazen,

I imagine gliding over a frozen lake and not being able to land.

                                                                                    –or needing to–

Now Mr. Eliot, you’re right, spring hurts,

but you couldn’t help yourself,

you had to make it pretty (oh so pretty, vacant)

                                                                                    and you don’t care.

It hurts like a dying plum tree’s wild, shot-out medusa-hair

suckers blooming at the tip, birds landing all over it

to get to the feeder.


Don’t fucking coax me, you cunt–

but I see the emphatic golden dot behind

the white-throated sparrow’s eye

                                                                                    and I’m not stone.

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