^~^^~

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

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