When the tenement loses
its place in the light,
thirty pigeons bleed
from the gray brick sky
where crowded bedrooms dwell.
Fat with plague
and sidewalk plumage
the pigeons descend as a single shroud
and peck at the cement
like starving asphodels.
And the people, always talking,
always feeding their obedient phones
and ignoring their outdated dogs,
scatter like the scattered
seedlings of a colossus that fell.
A TRILOBITE PREPARING FOR ITS BIRTHDAY
mammals, it is never night.
The sunlight is just broken
or hunted down or self-conscious
from the way its turtles twitch like sea lungs.
of shale, have just led the world
to a different room of oranges and wind
and everything the trees and hills can see,
everything the mountains shy with stone can see.
and the tomatoes cannot play, nor the leaves,
and the faces seem scary in the sky today,
it is not raining—
mining the cephalon forests of a mirror
when it’s closest to the happiness
stolen from your toothpaste shades of sky,
that bedtime era.
from a more slight and missing day
become bright listening for your trails
through fossil ranges of salamander and cynodont
and a pre-school apricot nephew.
you hunt the sugared cliffs of a cake
for a brachiopod’s grandmother
and a Norian granddad, both still
next to the sounds a rock made
back in the mythological light.
and hugs of dandelion worlds,
they bring five windswept candles,
five hives of ice cream,
five soda bottle amphibians
and hold your newly sprouted hand,
its house and the little way it laughs
without windows on a Silurian, birthday afternoon.