Stones

Stone clouds tell her story.

Today was dry before grey stomped
over head.

I wish I was her. She reminds me

how to cry like my pupils are perfect moons,
ten thousand drops on the prick
of every sharp edge .

She shapes me,
she wraps me in her moisture
when I am filth, then leaves.

I forget. I fly around memory
and time like
it still exists,

like one floor leads to
the next floor,

like today isn’t meant to say anything,
I hope

for silence underwater,
my big head under
water
breathing out every last danger

until my old body is
roaring grey stone,
floating in over head,
reminding someone to fly around
memories
and time
like they still exist.

Blackbird Song

I have let callous hands
unzip my heavy breath,
free me of metal,
cold restraint.

I have talked to wind
chimes short of frost,
of shine, and let
windy hands slap falling
leaves off
their easy limbs.

I have laid in blue bed
skies, covering mortality
with surging white mass;
pillows for eager
eyeballs. I popped each blue ball,
socket clean of collagen,
of cell, blackbirds emerging,
fleeting,
feeding on my sight.

What they must have seen!
What images must be coursing through
silk ebony feathers!
It is, surely, enough to take
a blackbirds
sight,
enough to pluck wispy wings
from a torrid
feathered friend.