There is again a faded bird
that once flew over and beneath white tiles,
bent and balanced in front of me,
blind as I held on
to a plain view of young roses.
She’s flown by again tonight
in a distant dark
and Im up again with lumbering lips
trying again to learn her whistling call,
to know her song and eyes again.
I know it’s an evil song, beneath her lost eyes.
I know its full of hapless circles that will leave me
and take off for tilted seasons.
I know there must be some viral thing in me,
some allergic crutch.
That is all there must be to keep me
so fixed on finding again
her lost and hollow bones.
