Mist, dew and rose.

Three songbirds rose
Their wings quiet—
Weaved a riot—

Breath, then bone and blood
Whispered to noise from, for mud
Let them grieve, let them—
Yet another young note
On the hard-baked stem.
Restrained do not

Cry
Nor bleed or melt a flushed blue
Pearly melodies of sky
Do no do, do not do

Ask of liberty—
Pretty, petty property.
What of birds?
Clumsy drip-dropping words

Only a breath weeps
Only bone shakes
All ballads, the blood keeps
Only the carcass wakes

And silent, silent goes
Into the blooming blue goes—