There was a little bird I knew, clamoring on and on about the little things
Such as why we line leather with wool and why the sun moves round in circles
And how the boat floats on water.
Bright as her white feather, with eyes wide, taking in the world with
blatant skies filling her.

There was a little bird I knew, learning and pestering mentors and teacher
For the secrets of the earth. What lies underneath the dirt and rock? What holds us together?
Whispering winds to float away on, always too far horizon stars.
Long, fluttering, and dragging feather worn and torn away to her content,
and a disappointing mother saying, “why’d you pluck such beautiful feathers.”

There was a little bird, clawing for knowledge and wisdom from the elders
who said, “no, stay and fly around the same trees and make a nest, be content with this.”
and she did, saying, “I will be content with this.”
and she stayed under the dark canopies and hid away in her nest.

There is a little bird I know, silent and sullen in the reeking shadows
waiting under the leaves, through rain lashing and sunny vibrance
that never touched her feathers.
and her mother said, “why’d you turn your eyes dull. You had such beautiful eyes.”
Disapproving stares, distraught apathy, and cavernous hallways

with no ceilings and no beginnings. It started like
this.
       Brok
               en
sentences.

Broken can be repaired.
Can her eyes be bright again? Can the world shut up and
                                                                ­                            stop breaking?
Lies have clawed at her              L
                                              ­ B              U              
                                  ­           E                   F                   Eyes
                                               A              I
                                                ­    U    T             But did not turn them ugly.

But the lies made them             G      Y
                                             U       L
In the way that muck on white leather is distasteful and
how crimes on another are leeches between toes.
                                                                ­                                            And so the bird I knew,
                                  died.