to kyle

you said to me

"if I were ever
born a flightless bird,
I'd kill

myself"

then stood by the green hill
above the waters, letting the wind
bring triumvirate

clover to your
open hands,

open like wings.



and in
the deep
woods
where the
night falls open
and blue,

the
blue evening birds
are so far

the hunter
makes little sound.
and they know
not his

milky eyes