Oscillate Wildly
Five wires stringing heaven's
cross-stitched skies
and Mozart’s manuscript
is empty of magpie crotchets,
but one autarkic, swinging
in four fifths of stillness.
Possibly he departed late,
watched wily from the gate's
old rust slung bars, curious.
No soft winds or breeze
singing brings bridges,
wooden poles clutch ridges,
and in oscillations from far
summons rhymes of Witchita.
What is or was cannot be known,
and so lights no fires,
or else this bird has flown.
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