Birds descend on earth in waves,
each leaving an eye in the sky framed by a lame triangle
with old rusty scissors inside.
Ancient rumor has it that
they are looking for a kindred specimen of unusual qualities
with a thousand mirrors inside,
but no one has a spyglass to see what’s below.

Each bird leaves a leg in a pond.
Librarians hide ornithological books
among tedious mystery novels and go hunting.
But birds have no spyglasses to see what’s below.
Each one leaves a leg in a pond
and hops on the heads of the nimrods.


Bricks and boards are clumsy poems
always silent at 4am; sticks and stones
are messy too. For millennia
birds have been singing to the gumshoes of Atlantis,
happy owners of saturnian genitalia.
Satori is just a middle-class idyll
with occasional 911 calls
and liquid wine corks to play with in the morning.
Courteous clay creatures dance on the roof
unable to erase the vultures from the sky.
They hang their pants and shirts on the tree branches
and forget about them till tomorrow.
Their names, too long to remember,
could bore holes in the firmament
if they had neither th nor ph in them.