a finch
reminds me that wind swirls ashes to moths
when its talons carry my puny treasures
off toward a slice of incarnadine sun.
the spider of my sins, aghast in its yanked net,
glowers at the dark slash of the wings
as they part the dusk into a finality
of future versus past,
the j'accuse of this bird
as unforgiving as the beak of a sphinx,
on a trajectory so molten
it is the birth of the Earth itself--
and thus beyond the scope of my vision,
immune to its sticky strands of petty contempts
and their stolen comforts,
so dark.
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7/6.. mods
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