cock robin speaks from the grave
So much gets buried. The song,
The worm. The soft feathered
spring. We all lose our innocence
as soon as the ground goes soft.
Its muck and tumble. I was looking
away when the nest unraveled
and out fell a half dozen eggs,
blue as the ocean. Before long the earth
devoured them—little shell, little yolk.
I broke my wing thrashing into
the same window, the same time
every March. I keep mistaking
It for sky or the sea. Each time,
the crunch of my bones a surprise
as I crumble. But again, the next morning
the same little teacup, the same
high note. Every mended bone
longing again to be broken anew.
To be shot clean through.
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