For Q
Back in the ruins of Byzantium,
I went to market & explored a stand
that sold canaries, where I stood & watched
a golden songbird with a chartreuse breast
pound his little marmalade-crested head
against the bars of his far-from-gilded cage.
My chest tightened in the open air,
& I got claustrophobic when I saw
how he would beat his black-lined wings as if
the sky were not beyond his reach for good.
Frantic & panic-stricken though he looked,
he launched into a song out of the blue,
his consolation for his pain a joy
to hear. I left him behind bars of music.
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