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Birdsong, face it, some male machine

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Birdsong, face it, some male machine   
gone addled—repeat, repeat—the damage
keeps doing, the world ending then starting,
the first word the last, etc. It's that   

etcetera. How to love. Is a wire   
just loose? Build an ear for that. Fewer, they say.   
So many fewer, by far. He's showing off   
to call her back. Or claiming the tree.   

Or a complaint—the food around here,   
the ants, the moths, the berries. She's making   
the nest, or both are. In feathers, in hair or twigs,   
in rootlets and tin foil. Shiny bits seen

from a distance, a mistake. But fate   
has reasons to dress up. Stupid   
and dazzling have a place, a place, a place   
though never. She can't sing it.

Source: Poetry (June 2008)

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This poem originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Poetry magazine

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Birdsong, face it, some male machine

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