the songbird is complex, a
curvature
inside.
the blight of the missing habits,
so
changed,
designed to try harder—
prom lately, canteen memories,
abashed for many lusts.
the songbird is complex.
potting literature, accused as a
nerd,
as looking at eyes, un-dreamt
souls,
restitched, needing more thread.
inner campfire, musical wands, a
tear for the poets.
no one can see you—
no one can hear you—
most don’t like you.
flipping pigeons, sounding
syllables, applying assonance,
filled
with dissonance,
amazed about body contact.
passion might seem sewn—
not a given—
it became bourgeoise.
the season of the narcissists.
like a zombie, approaching ink,
fire
in a vest,
good is mistaken for pride,
many will die for a living cause.
