My vision deteriorates,
leaving me blind to
even the coos of
birds, playing hideaway
in the marshlands.
Words are such
complex things,
sounding so fragile
in between my ears
-- firming as they slide down
and between my cheeks
Like pudding.
A thick film.
Playing tricks on the sweet, supple goo that lies beneath.
Do you know where they
Live?
Could you show me —
Would you mind?
I’m distracted by this tooth ache.
The wind breathing
ice into the fragments of bone
tucked beneath my cheek.
I hear their coos
But I do not see them
And by the way they coo
to one another
(from near and far)
I’ve come to believe
neither do they
Are you real, sweet
Blackbird? Could it be
That your companions
Play the same coy tricks
As my words?
As pudding.
Ah, but there he sprouts
From the bushes of chatter
Red wings spread, grandiose.
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