in the seams

(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them sometimes when I sing.

(b) oh, you:
"love is a hobby like anything else, and I no longer have the time."

she asks me what I'm writing:
I am constructing a corpse can't you hear
me as I speak the meaning out of my name and



you bleed like I smile:
slowly, and without malice.