The tune of you
wrings things of me
which, ever unbidden,
only mean the most
an untethered hawk heart's
untrained voice through bill/beak
can freely, not merely speak,
but say songsingingly.
Tis not a consummation
cooked-up by whisk-whirring wrists
through the lank lists
of retrograde recipes,
but the full wrought score
of star-struck symphonies.
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