Rare Things


The poems in my head
pull a strike at long last.

The union said its piece –
thoughts refuse to budge,

refuse to file neatly from the door.
It's field day. They don't file.

Verses ricochet on walls,
lines slant-catch windows,

falling to the floor defeated,
sparrows trying to break free.

They tire of captivity, the endangered
creatures of my mind, pawing

at the wilderness beyond, within,
each time a little further from my reach.

They stop and stare discreetly, brown-eyed,
before they scuttle back to the rainforest,

words leaving me lock-jawed
in the cadaver of the moment

that nearly caught the fleeting
rainbow feathers of the wild.

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