These pumpkin-colored birds
have lost their brains.
Their silver hairs anchor their chests
that are heavy with the wine of berries
that curiously do not stain.

They knock their heads towards me
repeatedly, to an unheard symphony.
I watch their euphoric,
drunken rave,
until they see my face,
then each one, though berry-brained,
becomes a sage,
flying with precision, away,
until I reset my sight on my own underwear.

I bend over to take care of my mourning errands.
I put on my ampersand.
I dot my I’s.
The cheap jeans make rough work
of my soft thighs.

Then I rise to find the new batch
of silver and copper birdies
renewing their previous neck thrusts
of inebriation.


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