there is a house full of what you might call birds, species never before seen, some thought of as extinct. when i point out a bird by an all-weather road, instead of looking at it you look at me, you say it makes you happy to see me so taken in. i sight the same bird a week later, when you are not with me. i like this skin, that i can always take leave. there is a body full of what you might call birds, and the way i view you as an approaching star. you must see this walls as containing us, rather than a dark house of forgotten birds. i welcome the birds at the end of the day, when they must question us with their singing. i swear you, this is no metaphor. the cold means flowers bloom slowly. flowers from your ears and mouth, like cotton on a dead body. there is dust in my eyes and i’d like you to lick it. there is music in my throat and i’d like you to kiss it. when i see the bird i will be seeing you, i will take you home, get into your skin. dear young poet, i will take back my house of birds.