a bird among the bushes
hops close and sings to me,
a body in the grass:
you don't belong,
you don't belong.

because maybe this is what it is to be dead,
i lay still,
and wish violent things for the songbird.

a bird among the rushes
hops close, dares, hopes,
close enough for me to see the frail wings
and wiry feet.

and in my turn, i stretch out arms
long and burdensome
which frighten away the little bird,
flatten out a pool of grass
into a circle of green around my form.

because maybe this is what it is to be dead,
i stop breathing,
and will my heart to quiet so the bird will return.