Take these rings off my fingers
and make them wings.
I will meet the bluff that bears
your slow sighing west-bound wind.
It will be a meagre union
that hillside, to my sea –
but in this world of strange arrangements
sadder birds have flown as free
I don’t fly like arrows gliding
through the canyon,
my path is guided by the
You don’t feed sparrows crumbs
or consolations –
your bird must outlast the end
of the eternal world.
I came dressed in severed strings
and rags of shadow.
You, you hopes all feathered
from conversing with a crow.
Ah! then, I am your black jewelled jackdaw
strung all along your wire…
Let us commit some murder, Blondie.
Let’s get all up in the sun.