this used to be a bird
this messy black scratch of feathers and bones
once stitched tree to sky
plucked a silver thread to sew sun to sea
a collection of whispers and wind
struck the glass and landed like a purse unzipped
its contents now being sorted by the rain
this used to be a bird
this still life
this dreamless arc
this empty dome
this tilting church
this heap
this dead river
this used to be a bird
