Watch me now.
I am the hope in your soul and
my feathers are falling.

My claws are dulling on this branch's bolts
and nuts that loosen under the rusting wood.
I see you through your window prism glass
but your tears don't fall as down as gravity should.

Gravity. Gravity. Gravity.
You see me dance to the waltz of
the apples all falling.

A hammer curls among your right fingers
and heading to your left. You look for me
on the ground and softer branches of fir,
but you've known I'm here in this iron tree.

Melt it down now.
I'd fly away and leave
the tree to its falling.

Your bones are breaking and I am shaking
so I cannot come and would not sweep you
beneath my mother's cotton down wings,
for you have dulled my claws and still your fingers diffuse

to the sound of the

Windows now fogging.
So we scream as
the light is still falling.