What the finch sang

I wish I could say the finch wept for me alone

from his linden branch, but he sang for the whole

neighborhood, as twilight rose on his Addio L' Amore

 

for some fickle Violetta gone nest hopping,

a lament so rending each trill seemed

to shatter his glass heart and the baritones

along the quay fell silent,

 

and whatever jubilation normally erupts never did,

not while the finch grieved and the sky filled

with pinpricks of light. I wish I could have stroked

 

his chest, his twin, stuttering lungs, and consoled all

who listened on our stumps and lonely boles,

remembering our own farewells to love: dark eyes,

 

sleek feathers, sweet wine of those who peck us blind

and flutter off. So sing, little Rodolfo, sad

Chansonnier, and let us cry with you in fellowship,

 

and let us cry for our mutual folly, for love which

evaporates, for passion which devours us, for

emptiness, yes, warble a note or two for the pouring

 

out of ourselves into others, for this dusk which

has turned the streets vermilion, for this cafe

lighting itself against the night.

 

--Miguel de O

Done