Ontology in Birdworld

And being took years off my life;
By cage of the Bleeding Heart Dove,
What epitaph speaks of this cold,

What aphorism of this love?
And being born made me so old;

And I try to pull on this glove,

With mitthorn or envelope knife
Of gaunted age, one of a pair

Handed me by my daughter; where

The tanagers sing their monodies,

And false wounds and false memories

Of leaving my sister alone

Fade: avast confabulation!
And my daughter’s smile is mid-tone:
Synsolution, evolution

Reuses design – note walnut

And the cerebral cortex – but
I do not see this living smile

Simulacra, soft hiatus.

If a fish's lips evoke vile,
Grey urinary meatus,
Do not slander me in dreadful
Redolence; let me lie peaceful
In this Kingston grave, whilst my words
Are found in poems of Hart Crane.
Outside the cage, native birds,
Praline between walnut and brain,
Peer in at the bleeding heart dove,
As I pull on the other glove.