A bird in the hand.jpg

It is a talking and a whispering,
That’s all poetry is, and a door
To where we talked as we walked along
Where we don’t walk along anymore.

It is feather warning feather of imminent death,
That’s all poetry is, for the door
Creaks and the cat
Will kill us before
We have taken a breath.

Speech, when its singing, is singing
Inside singing, not a precise command,
Not right or wrong,
Loving pretending a loving that is wending
Its way into syllables saying a seven-syllable-song.

Poetry is how beauty recognizes
Beauty truly, for foot and eye
Don’t speak, and what doesn’t speak
Doesn’t like to speak and when it finally speaks
Will likely lie.

Remember the trees where we walked along
Where we don’t walk along anymore?
No, you don’t, for I was writing a poem in my head.
I was a terrible bore.

We can’t see right from wrong
Unless another die.
Singing birds are hopping and flying
Darkly, cleverly avoiding dying.
Poetry has made a song,
But song made poetry, why?

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