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.
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