Tag Archives: birds




Where does sound go?

between buildings

along streams

with children

through ice cold winter snow jackets on hills around mountains

in circles with itself

from one ear to the other

it stops at the edge of water, waits a minute before warbling in

coasts from whistling stormcloud to stormcloud

sweet cirrus hear from afar

under houses and through buckles and bicycles

splashing out of all bathtubs

snaking through trains of gentle camels

in brightness, darkness, twilight

hitchhiking with the wind everywhere

chasing falling objects, mostly chasing the kersplat of their impacts

coming between collisions

clipping all scissors

rolling out from under squeaky shoes

in the orchestra of each thunderstorm

under the violent, long fall of a raindrop

at the bottom of each birdflap

between the porch cracks of human sadness

with all languages

the same way rain

falls down dripping gutters



On the clock

looking down at the thin

minutes skipping in place

looking down on the seated

couple, a fly buzz buzzes under

their table looking down

a wide expanse of floor

like a polluted sky hugged and pinned down

on concrete cold foundation,

worms of carpet grass hold it in place.

Off the clock!

Looking up, chalking

every sound up to chirping

of the freedom birds, up up

and dash it doesn’t matter

wiggle toes, close the door, and away

and up to the self you cultivate

on the fly



imagine what we must look like to the neighborhood

birds—cruel colonizers they caw to, make nests

above, tell their hatchlings of the anteCerebrum days

before the skin kings sunned on towels, in pools,

in glowing boxes lined up like coffins, building theatres

sectioning off parks as separate from the rest

as a habitat for trees, a novelty to be oohed—

shiny pin of sanctuary