Killed by my cat, the thrush
sits hard in my gloved hand.
His feathers are his shape.
Round my thought flutters
a fluff of words, its shape;
it lies hard inside.
Feathers reveal and hide.
Back to Raymond Queneau
Killed by my cat, the thrush
sits hard in my gloved hand.
His feathers are his shape.
Round my thought flutters
a fluff of words, its shape;
it lies hard inside.
Feathers reveal and hide.
