Your Voice is Not a Slice
Keep roots full, gourds bitter; let wild nature fiercely twine against all…
Read more →Life is counting forgotten small things, but birds imagine home beyond every solid wall.
If not for, when waiting for elevators to down itself,
counting holes of smoke detectors or the sieving seamless walls
or sweeping the helpline numbers to clear the antlers of mist
over the first phone number I memorised, what’s living composed of.
Or the teacher I forgot the name of yet list out the anger of
or urging birds—their feathered forms—to leave the building
I call home wherein they gurgle like roebucks preening
ruins awake with their tongues torpid. These birds manage to
make an aperture of all things that manage to make a wall.
They must assume that the other side of every wall is home.