in the midday sun
a bird sings
in a cage the size of a hat –
through closed gratings
pale song seeps –
thin voices sing
bent over sicilian embroideries –
along white and yellow threads
the words drip –
– – –
sixteen-year-olds – seventeen-year-olds –
gratings between them and the midday sun
and the morning sun and the twilight –
and one night
you might terror-stricken throw
the key to your gate down into a moon-filled street,
that you may see
the grapevines of the man writhe
in the midday sun –