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Bird

I want to tell you about my recurring dream, the one where soot dances out of the chimney and the sky is water, the ocean, dripping downward in spirals of purple. You sit on that branch, and your black feathers are bound around yourself, imprisonment. Why do I tell you my deepest secrets, poetry flooding out of my pink lips? When you deceive me so plainly, singing your own language, unrecognizable to me, I want to say more. Will my words make you stay? But no, fall approaches and as the air grows cooler, you must migrate somewhere warm. Maybe you sit on the same branch each night, watching the sunset in ribbons of peach, and the sky turns to fruit. Does its sweet juice rain down? Nameless bird, the branch I sometimes find you sitting on is now covered in snow. My poetry stays behind closed lips, overflowing out of my nostrils, eyes, and ears. When you return, what overflowed will be a river that snakes over hilltops and in caves.





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