Dispatch the Flies

A black finch sits on a black branch never wanting
more than praise for soothing
he proposes himself as the first form
dressed in weight, sunken into the seen
while beyond his edge the subtle goes on
unclaimed

A black finch sits on a black branch
blind to the brutalities of speculation
atrocity of yes and atrocity of no
listless in the stillness he becomes
the subject of his own dismissal
he decides he is untrue
no place for reversal

A black finch sits on a black branch and fails
he becomes an aspect of the branch
absorbed by what he borders
but his mind, as yet unstill, is like a birth of flies
before the dawn that brings the light
like a pyre