The silence between the wine glasses is phoney is
Made of hammers manufactured in profusion to change
The way of a muddy mirror
But horses dance among dirty dishes invisible to the clocks
That cautiously follow the veils of hangover
To the trees oblivious to the clouds



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