The birds
He rolls around in circles, she says,
To stop the universe.
“There is
in these circles
perhaps
some kind of permanence.”
A swarm of birds fly round
Like dust
somewhere in Newville.
There is no need for death
to remain, she writes.
The lines will stay
indented in the sky
And dust will fall always in the same pattern.
“The birds they circle back.”
(Or perhaps some different birds)
To be
incessantly
where they are not.
And feverishly we’ll sit
at the edge of everything
And trace
these patterns
in our hands.
He rolls around in circles, she says,
To stop the universe.
“There is
in these circles
perhaps
some kind of permanence.”
A swarm of birds fly round
Like dust
somewhere in Newville.
There is no need for death
to remain, she writes.
The lines will stay
indented in the sky
And dust will fall always in the same pattern.
“The birds they circle back.”
(Or perhaps some different birds)
To be
incessantly
where they are not.
And feverishly we’ll sit
at the edge of everything
And trace
these patterns
in our hands.