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

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