living in a jar

the cardinal hurls itself against the glass
repeatedly a pity it would be
to have such pretty life obliterated
it must suspect some unexplored estate
beyond the obstacle it cannot grasp
seems somehow eerie that it is blood-red
the color of myself seen from inside
i’ll verify the truth of this conjecture
if it persists and splits itself in two
stains on the glass so far are not its fault
i could have wiped it clean from where i sit

i tend to think of it or rather him
for it is surely male as if it mattered
i fancy him a fish of the wide air
myself a diver in the sea of birds
shielded from their fierce curiosity
by this sheer membrane living in a jar
which must be also valid in reverse
except that i for once have learned to sit
tight sick of the futility of flight
once flat against the glass i learned my lesson
and when i tend to think i think myself
to be an unreliable eyewitness
to many things a chronicler of none

and yet this blood-red bird of introspection
still darts relentless in his separate space

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