Photograph by Tiago Sousa

The promise of night from the flitting lark is nothing
more than a half-promise; an unserious, soft-
hearted, lightly-sung it all ends tonight
‍vow. Mister Bird, I don’t trust you,
and if you lie to my face, sun-
plump and gullible, you must
not trust me either. What a
lark—to believe in a bird!
What he speaks warps
in the window glass
that makes up his
keen eye. Is he a
spoon-omen?
Coddle of all
the rotted things
from the nightmare
shelf—knick-knacks of
dreariness, and carrots?
I’ve had a lot to say because
of Mister Bird. His bleakness made
a lasting impression on my marrow, all
with the fine tip of his jutting, dark window-
pane eyes, and his complete ignorance to the fact
that I’ve had a thousand window-snug endings already.