Even the morning is formal. A coughing dog
scatters the birds, whose quick hysteria
Becomes a lady’s fan against the fog.
I sit upon a changing porch, and think
ideas about the insubstantial wood,
That I may make real porches out of ink.
This is a crazy morning. There are times
when it seems highly serious to catch
The indeterminate between two rhymes.
Yet such a catch is fond, for in the act
analogy becomes the thing itself.
Porches are made of wood. This is a fact.
So look again, and deeper. I have heard
that though the animal is singular,
Two billion particles make up a bird.
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