February 15, 2013
Under feathers
Huddle all the dark,
Sharp things of the world.
The bird womb breeds
Beaked fury that scurries
On Swiss-army knives,
All blades bared.
Like sharp treasures
In pockets
Forgotten,
Their cries send needles
Through veins, trains
Whistle more subtly
Than the winged refrains
Of my flightless fear.
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