"they are the slim birds of the air, / the directions of joy."
From "El desnudo" by Pablo Neruda.
they are the destroyers of airplanes, the builders of forests,
aptitude of the atmosphere and flyweights of feathers
patted down and tucked under the shoulder.
nothing so contaminating, eventful, scavenging,
or random in joy or space. same kingdom, new species.
in the wettest part of the jungle, in the oldest ruins
of mankind, are the warm wing flashes for a berry.
nothing so fresh! like an oriole in the crumbling downtown,
fishing for red brick crumbs. a bath of french fries
on the patio and the world's a gum wrapper.
and the nine percent chance I'll make my mind into
a bird is enough to drive the flock away. in the dust
a cartoon puff of plumes before the beaks settle down.
joy is cohesion and the explosion of tiny, hollow bones
that are perfectly random.
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