The Bird

On the worst days I try on the bird.

I have constructed of lost feathers.
Saturated and dripping its pungent mysteries
into my ears I become a bird in a tree on a mountain of brambles.
Inside the foliage it is night
but through the leaves the white hot sky is visible
as it drips its slow meditative tears.
And as I settle in my nest of feathers and dead sticks
the odour of absent birds staves off loneliness.
Beyond, the solitary echo of the breeze massages my face with its sweet
light scent of jasmine rain and feather-meat.
And on coming back, once removing the bird
I never fail to find a feather in my mouth.
And with thorns in my hand remnants
of the desolate mountain of brambles
I settle down on the front porch and pluck
them out and out.
One by
one by
one.