Yesterday you shot paragons of (...) out of the sky
like little birds
for fear that they would salvage a home from our coarse touches and cool words
This sharp light tastes nothing of you
You were once the sentimental sort:
erecting chairs outside,
in the name of fresh air.
Now, out in the open, it would be too easy to tell us apart
We are butter and clay in the sun
Oh yes, this light tastes nothing like you
I stayed true, and you swallowed the birds whole