You keep on tracking the birds
That smash into your windowed cage
In an elliptical effort to save you
There is dust
On the little shrine you built
A derelict radiography of your love
That once were
Keep on writing, baby, on the hard wooden floor
Scratch it all there
Label it all in tiny incriminatory bottles for the kids to see
I am but an old ornithologist
Trying to make a Kiwi fly
