Do I Appologize

What do I tell the little bird,
Do I say whatever’s
Meant in unfeeling wordings, lacking a resounding fuss,
Without the sound of smacked lips as if via a corn’s husk,
Devoid of scraped noises of husking corn, by cuts;
If I was red-handed by definition, how bring I, to come
In all my feeding frenzy, to bare my guilt, its fruition, —
What’s all-in-all; how is it that mourning a sentiment
Damns itself into dusk and such an evening’s loose end
Where anger is not so unlike that swill to liqueur buzz?

What do I ask the little bird,
Do I say what’s
The subject of treatment, lip service compared to words, worthier
Than sentiment when demonic possession despoils an unbroken heart
Or, to dirk that spirit with the arrow from the curing hand of Cupid’s own,
An only way known to disclaim dreadfulness, hurt without what it condones,
A feel for affection, the white spider—in a web of good—track from its center,
The only mending that discharges, that which begins with the first tear;

What do I send the little bird of pray,
Is my plea mea culpa,
By genuflection of a head on bent knee, while, taking back-hands of thee,
As that given name of discolor that which brings dishonor back to be;

What does the little bird say to two,
How can one? — What does the other? —
Where ‘ere in the twain these twin-spirits doth meet
No peace in the valley where rivulets run—no earl sun for fodder green wheat, —
Where water swells in beauty so viridescent, rarer yet its, star-struck
View—what wanders by worldly waddle, —what
Saunders in the steady study as if by an unsteadied uncooked duck, —