New Poem

The Bird Knows He is Going to Die and Wishes Not To

She says it never matters about the blue jay on the electric wires, making its own electricity.
Saying those bright blue things, only a jay can say from his roost of rush and chord.

She says not to put the cart before the horse--
the heart before the course.

But when she moves so much light escapes.

He’s squawking to all the babies now and ruffles his tail feather like a quill—
she says she feels more and more like a broken telephone.

Some lost connection, some buried bone.

This little pearl of a bird, with so much noise in him, so much to say.

(Days now, she moves her chair to the window)

She’s probably in love with that blue bird. She’s in love with everyone.

She wants to know how it works, how one word can travel, how one blue
thing can scare up cobwebs and dust.

She says his name, but it’s not his name at all.

Come “danger,” come “danger,” come “wink” and come “lies.”

She is wearing her changeable season, she is shedding light like feathers.

“Take it easy on me,” she cowers.
But he cannot hear, he is moving too quickly on his wired-life.
He did not ask to be chosen, he only asked to be amused.

(the window closes)

He moves the wires like an earthquake,
he squawks the jigsaw sky, he feels out of favor and out of fashion,
and here he feels it again, the cells in his body growing older,
the feathers unfolding, my lord he is a mortal bird.

(falling and dying)

Come blue night, come quick and electric.