Eduardo
(originally published in Indiana Review)
I was thinking about beauty, in particular
yours, you who are not by your own admission
beautiful, when the old bird down by the gatepost
started uttering his song, the one I think means
joy, but with an undertone of terror. The bird,
apart from his being a queen in the way he carries
on, is neither beautiful nor pure. I despise the clock
of his ruby throat, and because of the way I've watched him
root a metal can for grub, then turn that filth to music,
I have thought to take him down. But with what?
I've got no gun to speak of, and once in my hands,
what would I do with that terrible scrap of scarlet?
