Pink shreds scattered, stuck in the spine
like shedded snakeskin left behind,
and tear-stained words already forgot
on crumpled paper piled in a pot.
I opened the door to the birdcage,
but closed it before the sparrow sang –
then whispered maybe in another age,
when the predator has lost it’s fang.
Scratches on the desktop like acne scars,
blue hands and in the margin stars,
all to make something with feathers fly,
but its song would only make you cry.