The finches of anxiety are loose in me.
The cockatoos of camaraderie ignore me.
The high bird of prey can smell me.
Those finches are flitting everywhere.
If I lie down they might settle round me,
who knows, they might not, they want
to be everywhere once they’re awake.
They’re like children thrown into a pool.
I hear one now just behind my ear.
I want it to go to the birdbath prepared
for it
and drink there and think of a paradise
where all this flitting will not be needed.
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