“Birds are dots to help you read the sky”
you used to say
dressed in that perfectly worn out suit
“Sometimes the story makes no sense.
The wind blows all the birds away, like now,
and fear begins to taste
like thousands bleeding impala
under your skin
“The devils ceased fire indeed.” I used to answer
bent over myself
in that perfectly sorrowful question mark
I died as gracefully as autumn does,
on the edge of those last words I said to you.