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
