There is a blue and yellow bird.
He can say "pretty bird."
He can take off your finger before you know it.
There is a room with a large cage,
or that is a large cage,
with a sentinel window where only light passes.
Say that this bird is yours.
Say that he lights on your shoulder.
Your skin will envy the window glass, and long for distance.
You can sit quietly in the evening.
The bird can strut and scream on its perch in the afternoon.
When you die, tomorrow or ten years from now,
The bird will tilt its head, fluff its feathers, tap its mirror
tap tap tap
in boredom or in victory, a line of sun across its rope trapeze.