Eventually you must
stop pounding the piano’s deep chords,
stop your fistfights and whiskey bottles
lined up like loose teeth on the windowsill.
You’ve shaken hands with the raw-meat
feel of factory work, men and metal,
Thursday night bowling league of cursing and smoke.
Drop your hand, let go. Fill your palm
with seed, dried berries, the
delicate wings of moths.
Offer it to the sparrow caged between
your ribs, button-eyed and
swaying in heat, peeping gently
in response to thuds and booms that
shake its nest from outside.
fiction poetry "fact" photography