We sleep with our own derision
stalking upon sleight of penitence.
A troubadour buckles down, trapping a moorhen –
strangling it then unfurling its wings
as one would lay out the wings of a Ulysses butterfly.
He sidesteps a flannel flower,
pushing through dense backwoods.
His face rubicund, belly just as stout;
the bird’s neck, dangling from its downy trunk – pendulous, then still.