The finch’s secret comes in fall
to get its throat bloodied anew
picking pomegranate seeds
one senses the middle level
even if it can’t get there
and flies off where and
for what unable to resist
sometimes I forget you are
there listening and go on
like a customs officer letting
terrorists inadvertently into
the poem’s true homeland
exaggerating my duplicity
totally but water-boarded
you’d too feel born again.
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