"If I Knew What to Do, I Promise I Would Tell You"

The little owl flies past the beloved red bird.
It's too beautiful out there. The weird world
Feels rigged, a lure over half-hid ambush.
The words want to break away from it, rush
Into some unsurprising nonsense, whirl
In ways traditionally called novel,
Pretended daring, experimental,
But they're unable to accomplish this,
Settling back like birds scared off wires or fields,
Too hungry, too tired, too careful, too true
To abandon the curse that nourishes
The fecund divisibility of
Them, of things, of names, of things without names.