A lyrebird by Michael Farrell



A
lyrebird



Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash.

All genres are destroyed at last.

History, mistakes, swallowed up in a nominal grub.

The slow wild alcoholics of the nineteenth dare make no
reply.

I tip my beak to the sky.

A nest-building lament starts up.

It's humans taking up too much room.

Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash.

The enclosed imagination buys a hunting

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