from Portraits of Imaginary Poets
Millions of years go by.
What remains has been worn
to a single brittle string
that otherworldly bird plucks
to weave its nest
of inscrutable notes.
So the legend goes—
no one has ever seen it.
But the unwise, the shattered,
the hubristic, those riddled
with depths of need
still swear, year on year,
they have heard the bird’s song—
chaotic, unrepeatable, sublime.
So the legend holds, the nest
holds, the string never-ending—
millions of years go by.
Tonight, into the unsuspecting ear
of a woman sound asleep,
a low hum shivers and curls.
In the morning the woman will wake
and wander into the woods
with unvoiceable tales on her tongue.
Lost songs live on
inside the lost,
so the legend goes.
Millions of years go by.
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