The stuffed bird has a plastic eye.
That somehow stares out beadily,
Probably thanks to the crescent
Of dust settled on it, so that
It seems to be swiveled to look
At you slightly suspiciously.
What would you do, what would you be,
Without so much seeming of things?
Every time you look up at it,
Before you disabuse yourself
Of your pathetic fallacy,
That black plastic eye’s staring back.
That half-shell of black plastic bead,
No part of life, in you’s alive.
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