i.

Osmotic processes do not shield the irony 

and yesterday

when i returned from the bane of my existence and the meaning of medieval torture

(exaggggggeration)

i saw a little baby bird
 

baby birds do not fly

don’t scud 

trailing the d-d-duh loosely beyond their tongue

they cheep and hop and fall out of nests

but no,
 

they do not fly.

 

 

ii.

thoughts imbue a peculiar water

the osmosis incomplete without.

as an IV dripped fluid languidly through my arm

i wondered

indolent

 

irises savoring the umbra behind eyelids

awaiting a redolence away from a hospital

 

whether the salt that infused my brain

would ever be worthy 

 

of paper

 

iii.

should you

(u?)

my dear reader,

overwhelming in patience,
 

find a lack of conjunction between topic and topicality

poem and poem-ality 

(as i laugh at my own joke)

 

may i remind that one may not see the fruits newly sowed

reproduce into brilliant showers of heavy-hanging pears

ripe apples

dripping nectarines

for many years longer

 

i see that bird now

a wing broken,

lying,

dead in a puddle

 

a fearful moment before the needle jammed 

and fluid ran into my arm

 

and let me remind - yes, once more - 

that fruit does not come to fruition

until one has grown

digested the newness of existence

 

and understood.

 

iv.

 

 

so perhaps there is one moral

one end to this rambling parable and epitaph to a mourned sparrow

 

just a singular, although you may see more

and i truly welcome it:

 

inspiration is not a thing.

it is not a someone, a some-book, a some-poem

 

it is an idea unrealized

and sometimes,

 

(like a memory that must be jogged-)

an external object brushes by

 

and not unlike a dustpan collecting dust

the idea arrives nudged

traveling to mouth

leaving

 

and that,

my dear reader,

is inspiration.