By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

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

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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