Bird is the word
As the Trashmen collect my thoughts
The scavengers dine on what's left of reason.
Some pinpoint of light, of thought, projects what's
migrating from a single name through all seasons.
Ibises on a pot shard broken with Egrets
Flock beyond number from a single egg.
Hans Christian Andersen's emperor frets
that the gem-crusted effigy begs
the truth and beauty from nature.
While Mr Klee laughs a constellation:
a twittering machine of info raptors
that sweep across the internet nation
To keep the students of Yeats from napping
While the Gyres gimble in the wabe's soul trapping.
