I can feel the quietude of an entire ice age
breaking in upon my weary mind
in this, the witching hour of my life-
where topsy-turvy seconds spill
from mislabeled vases in a haste that bursts spinning, smoking tires,
where treaded water boils,
where the pale face of ignorance smokes a skinny cigarette beneath a naked lightbulb on a bare matress in a quiet studio
in a deafening city-

I can feel my cells collapsing
under the weight of the metal in my blood,
the smog in my lungs,
the grease in the hair on my heavy head-
the fear...
fear of icebergs descending into unimaginable depths
fear like a kite at the end of a piece of taut red yarn
fear that steals my breath from me
that crushes the soul into soundless, whitewashed rooms.

Some caged birds sing.
Some freed birds don't.