there is a hum in the backdoor of my mind
collecting all the dead birds and spare parts that
have lost their shine
i haven't got anywhere to put them
so theyve coloured in my entire house
feathers swamp the living room
powders of rust inhale the kitchen
and for years i could've cracked my fingers, taken off my shoes, dug up the broom and swept the floors
clean
but ive grown used to the company,
that can't possibly hurt me,
of broken things that mostly lie still