for the birds

seven small finches



breath on windows

spelled numbers cubed



tiny parts, tiny days

the song is tired he said



some days it can melt you



why light rests the way you brush hair

inside arms, this ache for

parts of you i do not know



i must be inspired

you stay



morning's purple



its torn, bloodied lip

motionless



and dawn ridicules us

clouds balance out color

before storms



crystallized



this is how shallow

a grave might be

when one cannot die



completely



then birds return

you find feathers

where the words fell



we are their

shattering