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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