The Dead Bird In My Garden
Shock;without motion you are a
Caricature of flight; a dry purse
Filled with small stones;bonesticks
In a bag,misplaced. S I must hide
My hands in garden gloves strange
With earthsweat and hardened by
Rain. And when I carry you it is a
Burial second-class. When you move,
Question, is it the tremor of my own
Forearms,or are you ready for flight,
Still full of air ?
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