sondheim at panix.com
Sat Jul 3 09:00:11 CEST 2021
There is stasis in the feet, the claws, the post.
An imminent moment of invisible, internal tension.
The spring, the lift.
Nothing cries out in the beginning, throughout, beyond.
Silent in the middle of the city, perhaps no nest.
In the eaves, creatures.
It's the _tension_ of the bird, it's ours.
The weather worsens everywhere.
Canada O Canada.
The jay is _here_ not there, time looms, ours.
We are responsible for time, for _this._
Faster than us, we await, apocalyptic.
The apocalypse is a spiral, the jay is gone.
The post is gone, the city is gone.
The spring, when will weather worsen.
The edge of the when, the when.
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