there was so much night
in the broken choruses
the lung & the lute
carrying corpses up the spires
of starlight & shipwreck
where all hearts seem to settle

smudge me with this charcoal
wedged sweetly between the white
of my teeth
i’ve a great ability for silence
& speech, depending the hour
discontent or decayed
a little startling of laughter

i string the songbirds
stickly foot by stickly foot
across the room by the string
pennants on the winter wind
oh, arent wild things lovelier
stopped and strung

but they dont sing much, these days
poor dead things never do

i rattle them
& those little feet clatter
they almost look lively

winter wears at all these old
bones, & i’m never certain
if i’m alive
am i stung up too


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