In the Gothic antechamber
where the poet prattles on keys,

a maundering bird has wandered,
lost his pother, lost his flock.

Perhaps his world constricts, too.

Falls off in grand pieces

as the poet tries one key,
another, the gradual sloughing

away until the lost bird is
dancing with the lost writer,

such a peculiar minuet
in a universe where death quiets

even the hearts of stars.

The seasons have their rhythms,
and all around us, revelry.

So what are we finding here, with
this furtive music? (languid, heavy

hot breeze, the valedictory
percussions of aestival days.

Insects harmonizing, children
in the street under watchful eye)

Wrong keys aplenty, and in the
finale, not a thing unlocked.

The world no longer baying,

the torrential silence.

Unnamed, the bird still dancing, rejoicing

its own memoriam.