By Peter Spagnuolo Peter Spagnuolo
The plastic Great Horned Owl, stuck with glue
on the stamped tin, corbelled cornice lip
impresses no one — not the starlings that dip
and stitch, nor pigeons as they fluff and coo
around its feet. And vinyl siding’s too
regular — each molded, faux-grained strip
identical, but for dents, and that drip
of   bird shit from a sill. What if all you
might say speaks like crafted, ersatz things:
mimicry in a tongue you barely know?
Your owl signs death, the cornice stone, the fake
clapboard conjures farmhouse. While just below
the ledge, a wren’s mindless gestures make
an altar of twigs, in veneration of wings.

Source: Poetry (May 2013).


This poem originally appeared in the May 2013 issue of Poetry magazine

May 2013
 Peter  Spagnuolo


Peter Spagnuolo is the author of the chapbook, The Return of the Son of Ten by Fourteen (Pocket Plunder, 2012) and Time’s Wiggy Chariot (2013). He works as an exculpatory narratologist in New York City.

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SUBJECT Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Language & Linguistics

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