brilliant bird your

fire still in my hair.

Gravity has pressed me to you,

Hold me in your cupped hands.

The wind has blown away all sanity

And we have become the feathered

tongues of muted birds

The hollow bones of faithless lovers.

Burnished anger waits silently

never be to be spoken

But sails away on

the wings of migrating birds.


Svetlana Ponamarenko