blackbirdonline journalFall 2009  Vol. 8  No. 2
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There is a little world in the bird’s mind budding open,
a world made from watching and the sound of the rasp
making things still smaller—the door, the window frame.
Here they speak of a purse with buttons across its flap
that costs a great sum: cold button, sky button, goldenrod
and hurt buttons, suet and sun. Here she reads aloud
a poem about a woman who becomes a fish
for a man, who lies down on her belly to be cooked
on the heat-ridden stones. And this, as the garden figurine falls
willingly into the impatiens. And comes something about a child
but the fluster of it—what rips—subsides. Little world
where squirrels are struck, the bounty now of what’s hidden.
And the cat sends its purr out enlarging to become
the jet that rumbles night high up over the mid-Atlantic states.
This world—the bird’s wide infinite—lived out
one tiny, overseen thought at a time.  end

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