Morning is the silver cold color of a razor
You go to bed a thousand years old
and wake up a child
Somewhere in between
a cobalt bird flew in to your window
You thought it was a dream
You thought the steel drum thud was the sound of feathers going straight through the glass
In the diaphanous, dreamy light
of not quite morning, not quite night
the avian spector circled twice around your room
then nestled himself between your arms and your breastbone
and you slept like that
like familiar lovers
Sleep erased the vices from your veins
the wrinkles from your face
where the bird had lain its beak upon your heart was warm
warm, warm
but you wake up clutching a pillow
The bird never was
anything but a dream
Later
in the lilac light of sundown
below the boughs of the pine tree
that lives outside your window
you see the cobalt corpse upon its coniferous grave
twisted and broken
with none of the grace
it knew in the bedroom
indigo feathers flaccid and antridden
The tree becomes a landmark
a monument
a museum
The mausoleum of love that died with a sleepy smile,
flying too close to the sun
Hariadhi.nps.gov
