a black bird, wrinkles around its eyes
looks at me closely without blinking
asks why it can’t be the voice of reason
for generations of lost deplumed

i say maybe it’s ‘cos you look scary
like plague doctors of old who’ve lost their hats
and snip their beaks at prancing corpses
at generations of lost deplumed

that black bird, a noose around its neck
clears its throat, hysterically coughing
says it cannot die ‘cos it has wings
to spite generations of lost deplumed

i say maybe it’s ‘cos you haven’t tried
i’ve vast experience from which to teach
of dying and rising and decrying death
through generations of lost deplumed

and so the black bird shrugs, and it sniffs
it asks me if i have crumbs to feed it
i say metal ones, and then i shoot it
for the generations of lost deplumed