I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!
I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
Over which he bounces and skips.
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!
I haven’t been outside
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.
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.
And I’m curious.
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.
And a book or two.
This solitary window.
And there’s a flutter.
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.
Inspired by The character Lillian in Morris Panchy’s play: 7 Stories.
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.