The Bird

It is a forbidden place or it used to be fake landscape hewed out of replaced rock plants, and a pool of dead water in which exotic fish fight for oxygen Yet, the bird caged, is singing or is it decrying in its own phylum? The courtyard sky painfully clear even in this twilight hour unchanged With the bird I find myself fighting for oxygen Coming back could be a blessed bitterness and you are jerked a bit on the back of that dark horse --Z.Z., summer '04