in secrecy you preen the sadness,
running empty claws through bright plumage:
colored scarlet red, smelling
of roses and salt and all the dreams
you've ever feared.
which scene keeps you running, now?
which circumstance would make you set,
finally, to roost?
in silence you groom the grief,
shedding new growth and burnishing the old
words and old hates,
with oiled talons you separate each strand
and make them gleam with your mourning.
whatever cannot be gained on this perch
was never worth having,
an affirmation with each self-loving stroke.