John Kinsella

Off-centre, the weaver finch
enjambs its neighbour, cluster
hedged deciduously against patina
and intensity. Briefly

it was blue as you
moved configuration
retrospectively, for now
it's a different truth;

gnosis epodes dogma
all agisting the form
and offerings: we eat
and give thanks and take

the flock low-to-ground
as granted. The depth of blue
only valid in red comparison,
these dulled birds gathered

collectively. We'd have
houses implosive,
as weather closes in
and snow turns to rain:

by this we recognise,
cross over, and make more
of time, as close to speech
as thought or garbled song.