Some birds don’t have
A drop of water within
The limits of their fragile flesh
For them
To see is to die
To collect the useless
Each feather becomes
A symbol of the sky they have
Managed to escape
A twisted medicine for the lopsided



Birds descend on earth in waves,
each leaving an eye in the sky framed by a lame triangle
with old rusty scissors inside.
Ancient rumor has it that
they are looking for a kindred specimen of unusual qualities
with a thousand mirrors inside,
but no one has a spyglass to see what’s below.

Each bird leaves a leg in a pond.
Librarians hide ornithological books
among tedious mystery novels and go hunting.
But birds have no spyglasses to see what’s below.
Each one leaves a leg in a pond
and hops on the heads of the nimrods.

feathered creatures

Blackbirds are egg-laying, feathered creatures. In a cafe if it is a cafe a sparrow isn’t a sparrow until you don’t see a sparrow. You try to cross a sparrow with a crow, you win. You try to show them your palms, you lose. Water doesn’t want to be hot. But listen, in a cafe Jeremy Pann was eating something called Noah’s Dove. He had paid for it with huge, A4-sized bills. Jack Storey was picking ants crawling over the brass stem of the table lamp, tearing them and eating bit by bit. The ants were Eastern European, I was told. A good vacation is a typo and nothing more, dude, someone said. Meanwhile I knew I killed someone and it wasn’t worth it, even though the extraterrestrials didn’t seem to find out.


Seagulls and pigeons don’t care about their shadows.
They don’t give a shit if they lose them.
The doppelgangers can’t probably read street names
and signboards, nor can they smell the food. The cities
they used to visit years ago teem with insurgents,
the language they used to speak there, they now
use it to reveal their thoughts,
or as a substitute for wine, or
to talk to pets. How beautiful are,
no, listen to me, you bastard, how
beautiful are burning trees and beds, and TVs
in quiet apartments. And here
it’s only a ten-minute walk to the ocean.
Ancient lighthouses are happy to hide our joy.