Poems March 2021
In the era of diamonds and mink and fog,
while I sleep on a bed of straw,
they sleep on down, each one banded to show
whose bird it is—Caesar’s—on the leg.
The white chin strap I recognize,
the lilt and twist of the black boot, where
an absurd republic threatens war.
Now it comes at me with glittering eyes,
in perfect silence, wings flared, beak open:
but better go catch the wind in a net
than say it is stupid or try to stop it,
like the meme that destroys reputation.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 39 Number 7, on page 30
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