it's enough, the sun
burns through
then it's gone
never to return
or maybe come out
before you finish
this thought.
the tide rolls in, |
or maybe runs out--
either way the reverse
will be true when it's done.
a bird is born,
learns to walk, hop,
takes wing, sings,
fucks, then waits
as its purpose is formed-- |
another egg
with wings
waiting to sing
though i think
it's the silent places,
curled up, that matter most
and all the rest
is opera, costumes & make-up
to make dying an art. |
