small things

return, birds

smaller sun

light, a new

fleck of green

she says in

my left 

eye, pain

behind both

eyes, i was 

the day

i found out

i was 

color blind

not surprised,

this world 

everywhere

was not

what it 

seemed, violent

dissonance, dis

honesty, only

& truly i 

looking back

was too

open, kind

of stupid, which

allowed

at least 

an upsurge

of bad style

& awe, a bird

i could for hours

wait for, 

named after

the vibration

its wings 

in the throat,

a word

like this

humming 

should never

appear in a

poem, it has 

no throat

to speak of

grief

& fury &

this morning 

a sheaf, a 

a partial

interval

in my ears, an 

irregular

displacement

of what is

shared, air

she said now

with her eyes

closed, you first

always hear

wings

before the 

bird, look

now a green

so green 

a fire 

burning 

here, there

the same

sky but 

birdless 

& dark with 

drones