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I can see birds

Updated: Feb 5



I can see birds

in the sky above

and don't know how

to fall and float with them.

Where are our wings

and fragranced smoke of hope?


What can we see,

when the sky is

a bleak, black grey,

and the words are falling in?

We look up,

We try and

look up,

and our rites

are only old and shabby

garnerings of what once they were.


I can see heat

in the earth below

my feet and know that

it might not stop blazing

until the earth is

blazing.


I can see birds

in the sky above

and know that tomorrow

there may not be such

swooping, swerving luxury

of sky.


And I wish,

we knew how to do them,

rites that speak to

where we are

that set acknowledgement

and spaciousness of need

alongside that shabby

crouching that

doesn't look up.


For Christmas I eat

dead birds.

Milk that has been taken

too early

and salmon

that has existed in torment

rather than blue water.


And I think

is this the golden

festival of communal hope

entangled with sky

and rising?

Is it?


How to be stand-offish

between what we need

and what we make bleed

because of undead symphonies

that make a mockery

of song.

I wish that faith

would reform

like an apple tree

in windswept grasses like an apple tree

with fruit ablaze

that when consumed

gave knowledge of the fires

so that we knew

how to extricate ourselves

from virtual undead paradise

and stand by the swords

of change.


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