A Poem by Kay Ryan

I greatly admire Kay Ryan's poetry -  the compression, the word choice, the zap at the end of many of her poems.
On this very dreary rainy January afternoon ( have I said this before?) the Mockingbirds are still feisty and active.

Mockingbird   by Kay Ryan

Nothing whole

Is so bold,

we sense. Nothing

not cracked is

so exact and

of a piece. He’s

the distempered

emperor of parts,

the king of patch,

the master of

pastiche, who so

hashes other birds’

laments, so minces

their capriccios, that

the dazzle of dispatch

displaces the originals.

As though brio

really does beat feeling,

the way two aces

beat three hearts

when it’s cards

you’re dealing.