birdbones

we are birds, and our bones are strung together,
briefly, tentatively. we are tenuous connections
of degrees of separations, joints and sallow skin.

when you knock here, it is hollow, it rings.

we are poised, you and i, on the verge of something beyond us
our shoulders knot up and our tongues are tied
like a red string round a wrist, or around a finger,
to remind us what we have forgotten.

one day we could jump into the sky, and fly

and reach the ground, deep down,
six feet under daffodils sticking up,
looping chains of yellow. we euphemise death.

our bones are white, and pure.
one day they will break and get scattered into the sun.

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