Stuffed birds & Minus ten
by Norman Jope
[ poetry - october 06 ]
Tethered to the sky by the finest of wires,
they are condemned to fly, to resemble themselves
beyond their contemporaries, their dead descendants.
on the outside, there is static motion,
an illustration of the concept Bird
that represents freedom and shamanic flight.
on the outside, all that,
on the inside, nothing
but an ancient, indolent stuffing.
Snow glows red in the silent street.
This is not a time when the sun will believe us
when we say we need it. Nor is this a time
when morning seems possible, still less, a summer
that exists in theory more than in memory.
Dwarves with shovels batter at snowdrifts
as if they were ramparts, and the first reindeer herd
has crept back into the suburbs
to be barked at by alsatians.
One of the brutes leaps back and forth
at the edge of the wire, protecting cars
and howls, turns round, goes to the other side
of the desolate compound and howls again.
Red snow, black snow, a future stripped of meat.
the frost at its heart like a brass key in the hand.