Parable of the Goldfinch

I think you overestimate

the maturity of adults.

If a man who thinks he

is a king is mad, a king

who thinks he is a king

is no less so. Heavy is

the lighthead that crowns

before the leaves loosen.

Beneath the mask of

a father is a grapefruit,

a boy in fear of his own

fingers. From fear’s fetus

comes the notion of grati-

tude. We are indebted

even before we are born.

My occasional chin hairs

are masculine plural.

Because our tongues are

a violent pink and I cannot

speak of blood without

teeth. Because I never

learned how to whistle

and I can’t seem to kick

this body, I have adopted

this brittle lake of truth.

On one hand sits a song,

on the other my father

eats a bird.