Are the spirits for us
the way we are
for the birds

at the window, waiting
for their feast to be
our pleasure.

On the perch of
the seed hoard, morning
doves tolerate the cardinal,

& the junco stays one
wing away from the finch.
Or is watching the earthbound

boredom? All our pecking
without flight, plumage, like
the squirrel, hanging upside-down

to crack a plastic, engineered safe?
Do the spirits see our failure so?
Can such effort be ignored?

The way his limber brilliance
curls around the stems,
failing to break in.
Max Heinegg’s poems have been nominated for Best of the Net, and The Pushcart Prize. He’s been a finalist for the poetry prizes of Crab Creek Review, December Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Cutthroat, Rougarou, Asheville Poetry Review, and the Nazim Hikmet prize.

Additionally, he is a singer-songwriter and recording artist whose records can be heard at www.maxheinegg.com. He lives and teaches English in the public schools of Medford, MA.