birds by t

and this is what happens when you have to pick a favorite arm








a favorite toe
or a favorite breath



then winter comes
again



and all the good you’ve done
just laughs at your failed attempts



to make everything feel okay




you say good things
and fold hands
and whisper blessings
and hope and hope



but do
only in books
only in sleep
only in little wooden puzzles
from Indian craft shops

and everything else is just what it is




what it’s always been

what it’s always been?


build a boat for me
who-ever-you-are




and I am a window



blue.