A Swallow Must Find the Right Kind of the Soil
He came in mid-March
with eyes bluer than the deepest point of the ocean
and he was an ocean
ended searching for the last drops
to create a tiny mud bead
where his dried marrow can crawl in
pin-feathers developed ahead of time
introducing that taste of blood
which stood like obscure cumulonimbus
above his shrunken chest
as a warning
bells were shouting at loudest
so no one could hear his tones
but I took that glance at your notebook
stealthily
and saw through those written letters how
that cloud colored your eyes
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