Brushed

Fabritius chained
his blushing goldfinch
in exacting dark brush strokes

His bird stares malevolently back
at us – perched – wing clipped
in abeyance – dried into a charm

as those wind chimes swing again
on an equally thin link chain
beyond a high wooden fence

where our slow and elderly live
in stacked rooms
They’ll perch there for a while

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