The songbird flees from cage to cage
and hides through windowed night
Barefoot along the gutter eves
to ply the quiet tiles unseen
to flee sad men of suicides who with marchlike noise shout in halls
of old hotels and tenements
in search of faceless nooks of grief.

Hidden upon moonlit rooftops she slinks among the slopey gutter grooves
in sync with silent solopsist dangers
where capture, plunder are rendered void
just as blossom stings of beauty find in sightless rain escape from death by deaf heat’s dead redundant creep.
Like wingless stars contrive to hide
behind the windless clouds the all
of silent suns undone by awe.

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