Poem 69 Revised

Canaries in the coal mines collect among them the illusion of soot, watching match-side for the flicker of tightly wound impulse: applauding the hillside to crumbs. Canaries in the coalmine, sunlight strike your sanity away, a flightless sightless siren.  Canaries in the coal mine have no perch on branch barbs or street cars, no need to heed trash cans or mini-vans. Brittle beacon in the dim, for a moment I still believed you were a bird.
—ECW
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