He has this sky of compassed homes,
broken bones, feathers split to
ink wells but the ink has dried to stone;
in this westward view he spins while
collecting bombs that haven’t blown
(and the pins are now within,
like the quills beneath his skin).

I have the world hung on my fingertips,
spun like the gold of my hair
or the sun-strewn remnants
of a weather-worn spider’s web.
I have the world at an arm’s length,
because just when I think I know my own strength,
I break something.

I don’t know what I’m saying, but
I like the way it sounds.
Some say I’ve got a way with words
but birds have me by leaps and bounds,
their artists’ brushed branches unheard
through whiskey’s sated whisper slur.

Tap-tap on my window’s glass,
such an early bird for cartridge brass;
he slips on trills when sirens call
and walks the plank to catch my fall.

There’s a robin on an ark;
his dreams feel real, but
he doesn’t exist beyond my window.
I’ve broken him,
watched him break himself,
puppeteered his fall
with a click of my pen and a flick of the strings - he used to dream of flying -
but I hung the moon
and the rain still makes the water rise.

These words are vaguely cognizant
of blood and gore and prayer;
I have the world on it’s knees for me,
the birds and bees for me, and yet
I don’t know what I’m saying but I
like the way it sinks.