In those days we kept
a wire cage full of them

on the porch— paired,
the grey-headed and black-

collared ones; the females
mostly green, flushed beaks,

white eye-rings. Their feathers
filtered morning light a second

time that passed through leaves
of the guava tree, the redolence

of ginger flowers; at night
they made their own susurrus

behind the tarp we lowered
to shelter them from cold.

What perversity of human
nature made us want

to read in them analogy
after analogy? —The year

we fought so bitterly
over every little thing,

the year we found body
after body fallen

into viral lethargy
and stasis. Then every

last bird took its leave
and none would fledge again.


In response to Via Negativa: Blinded.

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