do you like the angiosperms

in the window? do you like my hair?

the robins making sails within the
spiral from his mouth. he sticks a pillow in her sigh
and she shudders toward the twilight nearing
my eyes, my knees, and the grasses at our feet
as we wince with silence to the
searching arrows sent into the wood, a fallen
acre, and a
deadened bird.

remember when? remember when the robin
was an acorn? eyes remember. they remember
robins, their acorns, and my finger on
a bird cage in the fall. my eyes remember
memories we haven’t. i eye’d a memory
from…

oh. well. nevermind. my mind wasn’t made for me.
not me. no not for anything but the silence it forces
me to speak.