Thursday, October 1, 2015

curl up very small.

I hear gunshot music.
I don’t want
to cage you up like a bird.

                        My wife is sleep,
                        My mistress is dreams.
                        (I haven’t seen you in years)
                        But I been cheatin on you, babe
                        with late nights
                        and alarm clocks.

I don’t want
to be your nightingale song

                        (sometimes I still dream of you)
            I know where you are
                        I swim in silk pillows                                   
                        (in the day I can hardly recall your face)
                        the end of
                        my falling sky

Poets write about birds because they want to fly far away

            if it makes you feel better,

            curl up small.

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