who am I to know this writing for?
a waves its
blackened screech
palms at the
heels as wings go
frozen in an instance
of falling
on the page to
feed upon its ink
readings taken
and made
pattern of
consumption its own
mess the text suggests
what’s left
potential for additional
subtractions
not the story of
a bird but its form
a cold grey
windowlessness
a condition an
atmosphere
measures paced
with fence posts
barbs notes to
sing along with
the sun in love
our bouncing ball
automotive hymn
book shifts
a choir wakes to
its refrain
who am I to know
this singing for?
if not to keep
this bird aloft
my hands below the landscaped page
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