harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i should ask mother: "will she be a cuckoo child like me?" but how is mrs. darling to know anything of such a blue egg; its woebegone glow like a speckled pearl —
i felt my shell crack : it blossomed with tantrum tears, those manifestations were hybrid; my orbs became glass and gushed over the television screen; the tar which shone in the river pricked my elbow and away i must —
and i felt my lovely pet press a wet nose to my cheek, mimicking: "please don't cry — please don't cry — " and she kept a soft wing beside me all through the night long when there was no human breath in the room (for really, i was dead and mine was a ghost's breath.)
but then you are myositis blue for i'll forget you not ever — and i dream of how our fingers might clatter and twine as wind chimes do some winter morning in the park, and i'll remember how you were once mine.
and i was a baby's milky breath away from opening my beak and singing for the day — i kept you blue bottled anyway, even when common sense told me to keep you at bay, you stayed — you stay — anyway.
*
"what kind of bird are you?"
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