in the dying light
of the 8 o’clock sunset
i twist the neck of the yellow finch
and feel the crack of bones beneath my fingers.
it brings no pleasure, only guilty anticipation.
later it begins to storm.
in the dying light
of the 8 o’clock sunset
i twist the neck of the yellow finch
and feel the crack of bones beneath my fingers.
it brings no pleasure, only guilty anticipation.
later it begins to storm.
maybe
instead of becoming stardust,
you sink into the ground
to mix with the soil and become
something that
will sprout
in the spring.