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bird yellow

I seek to converse with poets not yet
born, bright sparks at the periphery who
fear neither malware nor the afterlife.

I’ve whirled a round or two with Blake; my debt
to Donne is astronomical. While true
that every incarnation owes her strife

to popes and princes, rot and poverty,
while cowardice barks loud for guns and fists,
there surely must exist a proto-state,

some pre-orgasmic green room where non-me
and not-yet-you leapfrog in rhymeful twists
and turns of mind with those who shall be great.

A wild-eyed yellow bird lands at my feet.
“Too-whee! Step lively, mate, we got your tweet.”

~~~

I managed to squeak this sonnet in with hours to spare on World Poetry Day 2016. While the coffee shops I frequent have yet to accept poetry as currency on March 21, as many do, I remain hopeful—and I thoroughly enjoyed the latte that fueled this one.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016
Image by by Bill Majoros at http://www.billmajoros.com

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