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January 11, 2005

Song - by Robert Pinsky

Air an instrument of the tongue,
The tongue an instrument
Of the body. The body
An instrument of spirit,
The spirit a being of the air.

The bird a medium of song.
Song a microcosm, a containment
Like the fresh hotel room, ready
For each new visitor to inherit
A little world of time there.

In the Cornell box, among
Ephemera as its element,
The preserved bird? a study
In spontaneous elegy, the parrot
Art, mortal in its cornered sphere.


January 11, 2005 at 11:01 AM | Permalink


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