Image credit: Donald Zirilli
Donald Zirilli

The Poet Who Hates Birds

stands in his Zen garden,
craving silence. He imagines
the mouth from which a staccato song
erupts, thickened to a straight line,
unable to smile, Geometry, no feeling.

He wishes to scratch upon
the sitting stone
as he practices his words,
careful incorporeal seeds
that, once sown by his tongue,
will sound like nothing
so much as the interwoven cries
of two Pie-billed Grebes,
aroused by Spring.