The Circus at the End
And avian nightmares
The birds first fly in through my window
At sickening pace
And throw themselves round and then out once again,
Out through the window,
Soon to return and to this time bring stones
Which drop at my feet
And on each is a handwritten letter
Which warns of my evils and gloats of my righteous defeats;
Murder the things! Kill them, I say!
BUT TO WHOM ARE YOU SPEAKING?
It’s only the birds in this place.
Then enough is enough so I fashion a rope
From the tiniest thread
Which before was the tether from me
To a reverie now lost at sea
Where love was around
And swimming was free;
I fashion a rope and I throw it on high
And I’m hooked to the talon
Of some hateful owl
Whose name is forgotten
But never misheard
And he takes me a long way from home
ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?
And then do I know what it is to be owned.
I am left at the top of a mountain,
My captor flown off long ago,
And here I am greeted with air,
The terrible, maddening air
Which surrounds in the absence of love
And is thinner than straw
And which teases my lungs
With but fractions of breath
And which fills up my eyes
And clings to my tongue
And pledges, but never delivers,
The sweet and the reverend death
And I throw myself down the white slopes
ARE YOU SICK OF IT NOW?
And I hear the men laugh but I don’t hear a joke.
I tumble and bloodily tumble down rocks
To the base of the mountain
Where locals come round and examine my corpse
Which is living
And villagers poke and they prod
And undress me and weigh my appendages;
What kind of end is this?
None of them answer but all of them know,
Much more surely than I,
Where my body is destined to go
When the villagers die
And that voice barks again from its tower,
YOU’LL NEVER BE DONE
And I know it is true when I pick the tenth flower.
The next hundred flowers are all yet the same
And weigh nothing
And rip me invisibly open
For all to look in
And for all to determine
Whether I’m worthy of pity
Or fit to be put in the ground with the vermin,
But torturers never decide;
They never decide,
’Til again comes the owl with his hideous smile
To fly me back home to the birds
And I find I am home all the time
With the birds or without
BUT YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE,
That old wisest one shouts,
And I find I am home for the millionth time.