Roger Desy
the aviary

— a fidgeting has fed the souls of veins so far

— the certain strength of an uncertain clarity — turned to
for the energy of it — meals taken in private — in what acuity

silence can isolate — shy — small harm in them

— knowing the skylights in the attic i've written
rent for — the patina of an accumulative grit

etched on the surface in an incoherent articulation

over the vague refractions of an aging brittle fluid glass — it's

a hard place to raise birds — harder to brood a clutch

— a clean cage — right mix of seeds — pure water changed daily

— humidity and temperature — a cuttlebone to exercise
their instincts chipping a wilderness — pecking at bits of nest

— for the lusts — in the chirp — freer than any naked echo —

stop by — listen — all my canaries — are guaranteed