My Birdlung

you’re most certain of life when you’re closest to death; I recall out on a child-like limb the rage of bird-bodies underfoot that once sang overhead and I know it in my bones I know it in my blood that this world is done, call it a gypsy-cab. and even the taxi drivers speak no more, just two beady eyes in a dream-catcher rear-view cursing all the cats that dared them; the radio set to a sure and simple static I see the faces of strangers and I feel like i could have seen them a thousand times they speak no words to me and some don’t even look at me, their minds are cracking eggshells and their mouths are spitting feather; their thudding arrangements serenade me to sleep but my bed is within earshot of a birdlung that could take every soothsayer by surprise and sometimes I think that I fell out of the sky with them.