Roger Desy the aviary a fidgeting has fed the souls of veins so far the certain strength of an uncertain clarity turned to for the energy of it meals taken in private in what acuity silence can isolate shy small harm in them knowing the skylights in the attic i've written rent for the patina of an accumulative grit etched on the surface in an incoherent articulation over the vague refractions of an aging brittle fluid glass it's a hard place to raise birds harder to brood a clutch a clean cage right mix of seeds pure water changed daily humidity and temperature a cuttlebone to exercise their instincts chipping a wilderness pecking at bits of nest for the lusts in the chirp freer than any naked echo stop by listen all my canaries are guaranteed |