every ache looks the same,
stark, my feathers moulting,

alarmed by the way the night
gathers darkness, your fingers
in my mouth saying, “smile,”
saying, “its only

bad if you let it.”

i know. truth is, i’m good
at mystifying this sort
of thing, holes in

the ozone, a thornless &
rootless kind of shame.

did i ever tell you?

i imagine when god opened
this earth he did so thinking
not of landslides, but an
alchemic flock,

something good. something
better then we are.