The name's Duane, a recovering romantic.
And this sonnet's microcosmically me: intelligent
to an extent yet unutterably inelegant
This twisted yogapoetry falls far shy of the tantric.
But the doomed, pure gooneybird still tries liftoff,
flopping/jerking incongruous across your Canada Shield,
this tropical spirit beating its blunt clumsy appeal
against your ever-stubborn distaff.
Frantic wings pump and flutter.
Their antics, doubtless, amuse: as awkward
as the balance between meanly accurate
and the motley's drooling stutter.
The question, then: Can nature's clownbird conquer the runway
and slide into sky’s butterandhoney?