Day 18

There's a seagull on my roof, where
it does not belong
and the branches of the trees are not like limbs
or fingers, but like crooked stereotypes
of themselves;
bronchioles coughed-up
from God's own lung...


I lie down in the grass,
pray it doesn't tangle my hair
as it grows around me;


and a thrush is caught off-guard,
noose severing its warble mid-song.