Layard, Cuckoo, Quelea’s Widows
You treacherous thief at the tip
of tails and twigs, twisting thy
thorny troubling fangs; a feast.
A nest’s cling wails with the wind.
Yet yesterday, at the far end of
oily palms, soft as a sponge of
neverending holes, was a closely
weaved complex of red-billed wings.
All her rostra hang and halt all
hail’s tumultuous clouds.
Should socius’ repaired pairs ever
descend vertically toward cucullatus’
circular chambers, hers of portioned
walls of bladed glass tenderly balanced
near gregarious haystacks of dry
cocoons.
Yet yesterday, one knew what they felt
when they settled for the night;
growing and singing of sympathy
through the toilsome decades.
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