Down on their luck, three sparrows fluttered and glided
in the rafters of the Paris casino. Above them, only the faux sky,
the painted limits. Surely nothing below seemed familiar –
except, maybe, those world-famous baguettes.
On earth, all the gamblers anonymous had flown away
to the other universe, where tongues go mute and saliva
drips like coins, where taste dries up –
for lost birds, and crunchy, buttery baguettes.
Is anyone going to say something to these simple creatures?
About happenstance and coincidence, about illusion
and escape, about the pleasure of finding a little crumb,
or perhaps, if you’re lucky, a whole baguette.