That one dark cuckoo
bird is back,
pecking at my kitchen
window. In my nest
of chair I settle down to watch. I swear
he knows I dance
these cool tiles each
morning, knows I
tango with my radio all night long.

I see him wing past,
circle back. Day after
day he attacks this same
window like a recurring
nightmare. We stare.
His black bullet
eyes dance through
the cataract in mine.
I no longer see
him, still this pecking.

I hear the jackhammers
of Paris. How they rattle
our hotel walls. Pellets
of dead cement shower
our window on that last
morning. We nest;
make love like this
is our last day on earth,
our last day.

But that’s over.
That’s over and this damn
bird goes on pecking
and you keep riding
in my chest, riding
in my chest, a not quite
dead memory, a dark angel
with wings that circle
and dance, wings that dance
and heave.


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