Dead Sparrow in a Concrete Rain Gutter

More than all the bombs
exploding Bagdad and London,
I think God sees you,
little noiseless bird in a ditch.

Your feathers smooth,
your profile in line with your tiny body,
a delicate language in your feet.

You don't leave traces of intentions.
You shine still with such
perfection.

I will not say freedom anymore.

What rainwater will lift you
off the lichen and grime
and move you to the drainage grate?
Will your head loll on your neck?

I will not return here
to watch you floated off.

I will imagine the insects
taking you down
to filaments of feathers and dust.



by jerry gordon
7.7.05

Parakeets

And then, there she is, the girl of this summer. Tennoji station west entrance. I arrive from the rain in my slidey-shoes and she's sitting knees up like something abandoned just this side of nowhere. Is she homeless? Is she crazy? Is she real? In each fist she holds a light-blue parakeet, staring deep into the eyes of the left-hand while smelling the throat of the right. Their cheeps and chirps too stressed to be a song, except perhaps of protest. Encircling her, like the roots of some mythic tree, the bags of boredom's shopping. She watches me watching her and turn away. At such times, I wish I was drunk and with you. We would lean down and learn her tale. We would ask her what those birds are named.