I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.

for

    once,

   i would

love

      to be

         the poem

and

     not

         the poet

If dinosaurs still were
In my vicinity,
I certainly would be worried,
But also less bored.

Even if they have wings,
birds can never fly without the sky.

a thousand i miss yous linger
in the sky, stubborn clouds that they
are. but i am not tall enough,
nor can i reach high enough to
bring them down and spill them upon
the floor for you. so they remain
there, unspoken, unrained, unloved.