The gliding intervals croon their medley of clicks –
interrupted on occasion, say, by
a silver branch on which a dozen birds alight,
and by symbols which haunt these and other places:
unnerving ex-patriots of language
which gather before the feet of smiling children
like mottled pigeons eager for a human scrap.
The unchosen many, the scruffy pick.
And the according eye is extravagantly
clad for the likes of such fleet-winged separatists,
proud in its handsomely irised raiment,
a hundred sprightly ministers imposing their
random interruptions, genuflecting keenly
before the uncaptioned apparitions.
For even the sprung originals know taboo.
[Previous: The Greater Remove]
[Next: The Waking Contender]