Some things still bring birds of pain,
I stumble on forgotten, dusty corners of them.
That one eyed cat in the box, in the street,
and the cold night of my heart’s defeat
by a more practical god.
Left to die,
cats return as birds of pain.
And the skin of my youngest lover,
the infinitesimal globes I traversed
to the pits of her feet,
the soft revelations that fell
with the broken and demented flame.
Love returns with birds of pain.
From the sun, the birds are pouring,
sing the sleepless memory;
they are the silence we become
with every emptied hour.
The returning birds
are the days we are not allowed to keep,
are the nights we have to sleep with,
when the cats and the
feet of lovers are long gone.


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