Poetry

After the plumes, 
legs are blown off. 
Your body smells of migration 
and length of 
wasted strings. 
 
The questions will 
never return. 
Buried deep in crescent heart. 
Do you have the authentic 
information about the murder 
of the crested tit? 
 
The woodlands 
will go without a song. 
I will live in rotation 
with biological grief of earth 
and emotional blackmail 
of moon.