WEBVTT

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"Nightingale and Firebird."

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As if the song
encoded in the wheel

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could railroad to the
garden the mechanical grind,

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transformed the
nightingale to music

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box, the music to
evergreen vistas.

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The firebird was another story.

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Inventory of dust on
the wings, dried blood

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on the red gold coat.

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One thread about tin substitutes
for splendor, the other a ghost

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image for your burdened heart.

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Easy to confuse the
black chinoiserie

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with feathers torn from ashes,
twin halves for a childhood

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fear.

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You were never loved.

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You could surrender to
the hammer or the flame,

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but no one would come.

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That which they called
wonder was only a greased key

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in a courtesan's palm,
and when the bird

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sang no one heard the
sound a wing makes

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when the current breaks.

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