On the Commitment of a poet, 18 years old

for Barbera (revised 08/
03/2020)
If we had known the depths of your quiet
or looked at eyes as often as at words
we might have quelled the silent slow riot
behind your eyes' caged fallen birds.
We did not hear the keen of crumpled wing,
the sudden low departure. Only you
could feel the bird's last great try to cling
to air no longer there, nothing clear nor blue.
And now you grasp your song in muted stead,
in sterile space with tall blank walls of white
where no one comes or goes, but some are led.
You move if moved but cannot sing at night.
We sound your words, their razored edge is gone:
we sing some words, we cannot sing your song.