Painted Bird

15 Jan

Up into the zillion skies, you fly
All this paint tends to wear off.
What improvidence.

The fires of soul don’t provide enough coal
And hence you sink, you sink.

Like a freighter planted underneath an iceberg
Bad planning.

Ill fortune washed up with detritus
Iceberg lettuce. Always too pale.

Up to the beach, with the rubble. Dead hymens and broken seals
Up with the bones of death, and the bones of love.

Litter. Do not forget
about twigs planted in fairytales, that bore fruit
Or the metal gardens none dared report
There is more than one way to skin a cat
Or even plant a garden.

Things fruit out, it is so often a surprise
That one must suspect this instinct towards fruition

It can’t possibly be holy. It must be a ruse.

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