and it grown hard,
without a sea and atmosphere—
he's drunk it all up—
his strength's inside him now,
but there's no room to stretch.
He pecks at the top
but his beak's too soft;
though instinct or ambition shoves,
he can't get through.
Barely old enough to bleed
and already bruised!
In a case this tough
what's the use
if you break your head
instead of the lid?
Despair tempts him
to just go limp:
Maybe the cell's
already a tomb,
and beginning end
in this round room.
Still, stupidly he pecks
and pecks, as if from under
his own skull—
yet makes no crack...
No crack until
he finally cracks,
and kicks and stomps.
What a thrill
and shock to feel
his little gaff poke
through the floor!
A way he hadn't known or meant.
Rage works if reason won't.
When locked up, bear down.
Source: New and Selected Things Taking Place
Lovely
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