Another bird-yellow autumn poem

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
(but not quite) promising
a canary singing