"Nightingale and Firebird."
As if the song encoded in the wheel
could railroad to the garden the mechanical grind,
transformed the nightingale to music
box, the music to evergreen vistas.
The firebird was another story.
Inventory of dust on the wings, dried blood
on the red gold coat.
One thread about tin substitutes for splendor, the other a ghost
image for your burdened heart.
Easy to confuse the black chinoiserie
with feathers torn from ashes, twin halves for a childhood
fear.
You were never loved.
You could surrender to the hammer or the flame,
but no one would come.
That which they called wonder was only a greased key
in a courtesan's palm, and when the bird
sang no one heard the sound a wing makes
when the current breaks.