The coal tit holds memory in its beak
as if it were a seed; in the gardens
it is stronger than a pair
of golden eagles
soaring high over
the Large Hadron
Collider, that small place
made by small minds, sucking
power into its subterranean vacuum. The Alps
are less sublime than the coal tit
in a wet conifer. The golden eagles
aren’t to blame for this:
renders of flesh,
but no atom-smashers.


John Kinsella


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