The Birds

I’ve been in love too long

with a scoop of empty air

to hear a voice that isn’t there

sing tumultuous birdsong.

A bird poised at the edge of a wood

made everything a toy.

She slit her own throat, singing,

to beguile a passing boy.

He bent to dip a feather

in a drop of her spilled blood

but when he came to write of her

the words flowed out as mud.

I have been swallowed by my own heart,

sober and fever-less at last

and everywhere

confused crows on windowsills

contemplate tapping.