A dumber bird never crashed
into clear glass, my heart
long shed of feathers, a dead
thing’s milk, shoved too far
back into the fridge, sour
and frozen. It’s never going
to be of use. It’s taken almost
as long to realize that as it has
to grow the thing. Plain as death,
it lingered too long on the lines
wind forms in dust, thinking
they were words. It skitters
when it should prance, cowers
most days, and never perks up
when its name is called. Throw
a stone any way, and some
smarter heart will sue. Formed
of fat and cloudstuff, unable
in its best year to see the creases
in its toes. I wish I could say
it’s biding, waiting on a phone
call, planning something
worthwhile, but the mountain
rumble roar belies the truth. All
I ever asked was that some soft
hand smudge the glass. Even
this is too much, I know.