A Bird in the House

the truth flies     hungry, at least     and otherous, of which—though it may be one—Kafka said troublingly, it has many faces it’s the faces one wants, tripping the light shadows of     its skin colours      of its wordy swiftness, angry and solvent, of its loud remarks as of feeding flocks                      one year, one, among the smallest birds in the Northwest, flew into the house     a darting, panic thought     at the walls and grasses     perched on the top right corner of the frame of Tom Field’s painting wherein adulterous Genji is found out—so Lady Murasaki reads from her blue scroll—and permitted me to take it in my hand     soft, intricate mind     honouring     and lift it out into the air and the next year, again, one flew into the house, almost certain, like a visitor, gold-crowned     winged floating about     odd discoveries     and alighted on the brim of the lasagna dish     my hand trembled as I took it up and moved slowly to lift it out of the window     into the air     a kind of thinking     like everybody else looking     for a continuing contravention of limits and of substance for Sharon Thesen