A bird-quiet in your hand you can almost see over the chipped smile of broken fences the wood with the dull rotting disease of constant rain the gleam of autumn’s decaying petrichor blackly carious splinters crumbling too soft to pierce the skin night’s vapid breath against the glass the solidity of outside in the drift and moth flicker kitchen lights encased in the mesh of forwards and backwards lives almost (but not quite) promising a canary singing
