I cannot find the crimson in the filigree.
Cardinal, lading air with desire, a red unseen Ulysses,
I have no other to be siren for--sing for me.
My skin is newspaper, my eyes crystal bowls left behind.
The early April air, cardinal, is a sacristy
for tired robes of faded rose like love notes with edges frayed.
I have no other hymnal--so, cardinal--sing for me.
Lofty cardinal, mere bird, tireless singer, I hear you--endlessly--
but cannot find the crimson hidden in the filigree.