Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Dead Finch in the Guadalupes

image borrowed from bing


With nothing to do
wakeup coffee warming his guts
he remembers the finch
red at the throat
he’d found in the yard dead
beneath the immense gaze of El Capitán

empty eye
piece of fluff rotted
to a perfect skull
its frayed beauty struck
tears down his face
as he saw but did not want to see
its panache spoiled in final reckoning

he wanted as little to go
though he knew he would
as if he’d gone already
to the poppy’s yellow
bloom bravely
separate on a rocky shelf
crisp injunction to tearful woe.

Robert Burlingame

Posted over on Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends

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