THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

(Obviously not by Wallace Stevens...Are you crazy?)

VII
My weary tuft of memory folds back into its place,
Hidden not from the palpitations of beating, flapping, pumping
Shame personified;
Remorseless, his feathers still quake with a knowledge:
The If and When and How that shall never be again, all
Laden with a tinge of the blackbird’s gaze.