Friday, April 27, 2012

Cycle 14

If the bird isn't broken,
the world is broken all about her
like crumbs you can't assemble.

A flap of a wing
and nothing.
It may be brittle bone
or airless wind,
no sky left for stars
so they choke.

Tired bird remembers
how it felt to fly.

Flap, flap, flap
pitiful wings
again, again.