01 September 2010

Dear Little Bird On a Branch

you are a thing with feathers
grey blue with a golden sheen
and i’m watching your beak
the way it stretches so wide, gaping
like a wave. about to crash to shore.
a mouth hungry for particles.
and i’m listening to your song
and i’m hoping it’s about me
even though i am not a bird
and i cannot fly.
you see,
i am thing with skin, stretchy and pockmarked
and not very glamorous.
my lifespan is long enough for regrets.
my babies are not born in an egg;
i won’t feed them any worms
and i can't sing. 
at least, not very well.
but if you give me a chance
i can climb up there next to you
slowly. and I might slip. more than once,
but I’ll do it for you, if you chirp for me.
and we can watch the world
from our perch
and let the sun paint us golden red
as its rising rays make us squint
and look away. it’s only in the peripherals
that we can ever really see each other;
when we can’t distinguish the details
that make us different, we can transform
into anything we want.

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