Tiny birds  live in my throat,   settle into  a cool  place and sleep until they are awakened by commotion.  Their wings  beat  against fiery walls. The Kafkaesque I drop from my mouth. They  bite  the air with bloody teeth and sharp  talons that  caress  like barber blades,   surrealistic beaks and talons pierce the heart.   What is sacred I swallow.


Fine Art America

33 thoughts on “sacred birds

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