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A Bird in the House

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the truth flies     hungry, at least     and otherous,
of which—though it may be one—Kafka said troublingly,
it has many faces
 
                                                                                             it’s
the faces one wants, tripping the light shadows of     its
skin colours      of its wordy swiftness, angry and solvent,
of its loud remarks
 
                                     as of feeding flocks                      one
year, one, among the smallest birds in the Northwest, flew
into the house     a darting, panic thought     at the walls
and grasses     perched on the top right corner of the frame
 
of Tom Field’s painting wherein adulterous Genji is found
out—so Lady Murasaki reads from her blue scroll—and
permitted me to take it in my hand     soft, intricate
 
mind     honouring     and lift it out into the air
and the next year, again, one flew into the house,
almost certain, like a visitor, gold-crowned     winged
 
floating about     odd discoveries     and alighted on the brim
of the lasagna dish     my hand trembled as I took it up
and moved slowly to lift it out of the window     into
 
the air     a kind of thinking     like everybody else
looking     for a continuing contravention of limits and
of substance
 
for Sharon Thesen

 
Robin Blaser, "A Bird in the House" from The Holy Forest: Collected Poems of Robin Blaser.  Copyright © 2006 by The Regents of the University of California.  Reprinted by permission of University of California Press.
Source: The Holy Forest: Collected Poems of Robin Blaser (University of California Press, 2006)
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A Bird in the House

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