It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.