Ways of Looking (At a Blackbird)

I’ve been to three minds
and twenty snowy mountains
as a tree with three

blackbirds moves in the
autumn wind whirled with small mimes.
A man and woman:

I am one. A man
and woman and a blackbird:
I am one. I know

what you want: beauty
of inflection and beauty
of cues, the blackbird

whistling “Teddy”
and the long icicles of
l’ombra del merlo.

It’s gone back and forth,
a vidrio barbaro
mood described in the

shade, the thin cause of
indecipherable birds.
Haddam, know-golden,

noble, imagine
the blackbird walking the walk,
understand accents,

women, clearer rhythms; I
know the blackbird is

involved. How do I
know? When the blackbird flew out
of sight he scored clubs

from a crew of green
pimps, the perforated edge
of a glass fear. The

float of time has been
modified. Fly, euphony!
The moving river

is looking at the
same blackbirds snowing, and the
thirteenth century

cried all afternoon
in Connecticut, evening
going among snow

as the blackbird sat
in snow shadow, cried in art
shadow of cedar.

[via Italian-Romanian-Swedish-Spanish-Slovak, Bing translator]

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