a day of dead birds
A serpentine neck, the lank wings
streaked with Sicilian clay
and shoved into plastic. Such things
are omens. Silent and grey,
the dead swan sings no last note,
virulence holding sway
in her slender throat.
.
Elsewhere, men play at different games
with pot-luck and mixed success;
the old hawk sights, launches and claims
an eagle. They each profess
sorrow (which the act entails).
Neither a haruspex,
they scorn the entrails.
.
Today is a day of dead birds.
Rocs have gone from their sky-home,
disposessed and poor as old words.
We have made us a new Rome,
the dimachaeri unmasked
and crossing the sea-foam
where they were not asked.
.
- written in February 2006
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