Few

The human sternum cracking as some wings
expand to burn to brown in sullen, heat.

Dear you, at this point I feel compelled to rush
away from trouble, to take the elevation

as we whisper our discreet. Love, you.

Sullen, heat, in weather suppurates the spine
just slows, you, down. I have a lie

telling to tale you. Dear you, how many
people are we? Love, you.

How many am I escaping in the high
loft of the sky within the sweaty

atmospheres I fluster at your privilege
ear to hear me question.

Near

Dear you, a human licks skin out plucking
new blue feathers, white tail. Love, you.

Your flight is oblique, the sun
a bare yellow light.

A human panics into a bird. Sprawls out the house
through the windows. Migration of any kind

loosens the sky cloak. Dear you,
we're not appalled, love you.

But at some point the work to return to.
Your home, your life, the light

supper of soup and bread, your white
bedding gently illuminate.

Dear, you're an elegy to flight the moment you brush
ground's heady flora and brunt landing.

Walk in through the door, upright
with all your limbs.

The other humans eye you steadfast.
Say, I've been away.

Autobiography to a Talkative Person

You touch scanty. Oh you said me
walking behind in sound and wet

grass from drizzle. Look. I'll swab your soft
ear bent at my I'm you and surface

severed from voice instrument. Yes I'm her
has been surmised. Walked

thirty-two minutes in shoes to get here.
Confusing clatter the tone just bare and vast.

We could pour out tonight our swallowed and just
allow noise pounce. Could stand

a middle bridge and torch the mighty
syllables on either side.