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Stuck Birds Dream

She lives in a cold, high place in the Rockies,
the sublime she’d tried to reach in many dreams.
She’s built a house and moved there to the peak.
She can see all the bright sights she’d longed for.
Now she sits all day looking. Noon she leaves
her site to buy food. Just as soon as
she escapes, a meteorite hits it, missing
her on the walk. Calamity can come
any moment, she thinks, crush flat all
she came here for. It can harrow her house
on the tip-top of a peak. Then she gazes up,
sees pink clouds, cheery, bright, girlish,
Disney-like. Yet huge black crows peck
the pink puffs to pieces, slowly. So crows grow
to resemble an Ernst or a Magritte.

All the while, her stepfather fades
and the malignant tumor takes
his last lung. He stays painfully chained
to his lost life much too long.

“Thanatos,” the crows say when she asks them
their name. They speak detached, and devour
the pink moisture they seem glued to. “Shoo!”
she says. “Shoo! Won’t you leave here? Won’t you
let this pink float in peace?” But that blue
canvas is still stuck, sucked by rooks, black
and cannibal.

Fire and sooty earth meet to eat
water. Gone, gone is all holy air.

Labyrinth

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