We are using the same words. We are saying the same things.
Mark it. The interchangeability of birds resilhouettes the sky.
One grey line drawn overview. A space.
Bare clap sky. You are puncturing yourself.

All that gas, you think. No matter. No matter.

You will be lighter eventually.

Not before the birds blaze, metric of ash and gust
partitioning a pomegranate sky.

You loved pomegranates once.
Now there’s fruit everywhere.

These little seeds stitched into the hemisphere,
the drive, your hand.

The birds have gone mad. They will not eat them.