Poem 69

Canaries in the coal mines collect among them the illusion of soot. They fret the candle. They fear the lamp; they watch match-side for the flicker of tightly wound impulse: applauding the hillside to crumbs. Canaries in the coal mine, were they to look upon the afternoon would think quite seriously that the sun had landed beside them, a canary himself and burned their memories away. I cannot decide how to catch their wings on fire. Canaries in the coal mine have no place around the branch barbs or the street cars, they would ponder too viscerally towards the trash cans and mini-vans. Oh! the churning gurgling of their sooted gullets, I won’t trouble you to sing to me, in your rusty hinging cage. Not for this one. Or any others, dear canary in the coal mine. For a moment I still believed you were a bird.

Poem 69 RevisedPoem 69 Edited

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