A thrush picks at plastic
as chemicals cement both ends of beak.
The flutter of wings travel past sound
not faster, making gentle things
in the mind behind and beyond
machines speeding down the street.
An unassuming bird leveled
by artificial friction.
Maybe their end already went,
and this is just another requiem.
Earlier today you wanted to touch
the light on the trees and realized
that some shades of green aren’t even physical.
You didn’t think of the unbearable
because you were in movement,
recalling an old man named Sunny
who advised against idleness.
There are few instances in a day when one can convey.
This city gets turned on by the smell of its own decay.
And referencing nature while only knowing remnants,
of which, are lined up and cut out mathematically, yet imperfectly.
Despite of all the talk about changing the self,
the fluidity lies in the circumstantial.
The monotonous repetition and contradiction,
desiring cold while hot and vice versa.
Left and right thighs twitch back and forth
while the grass around shivers and sways.
Sylvia Plath thought she was the God of grass
and so she had the power to take her own life.
Call it having short sight.