This is a world of amazing reception.
Those goldfinches you point to on the cradle
Are not your problem. No, they’ll stay and sing
Pleading calls technicians might consider
Impediments to today’s sound and vision,
Though who dares hear the ear’s interference
Over the roar of cars, boom of airplanes?
Mostly I blame the rain’s contrariness
And liquid expectations we send up to the sky.
Magi cite the sun’s spite at losing followers
To screen-life and invoke the moon’s solidarity.
Whatever the incompatibility source suggests –
High tide, obsolescence of birdsong¬¬
Persisting beneath thrumming machines –
Queer blips I’ve noticed I seldom identify.
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