Transience

a poem by Roger B Rueda

I found the avocado one on the base of the birdcage,
lifeless in the way that simply feathered friends
can be, a feathered integument. It weighed no
more than the reminiscence of a modest time.
I might have had it on a strand, an embellishment
of blue and unhappy bent feet. Effects croak. We’re
such unnoticed foundlings, reflexions at best.
Our antiquities are hardly rises on the earth’s
irrepressible rear. Our fictions find no bookworms.
The nights devour the mind, the immensity
of carcase, the light that somebody might have
prised. We are handfuls of plumages, so
slight we fear the current of air and the press
of manoeuvres. It’d take so little for us to tumble,
to be enfolded  in a piece of connexion with only
an idea of avocado to mark an aeon once was alar.