morning, flight, burial

a penance
of songless birds
grip bare branches
in a breathless sky –
wind or rain would only
confirm the sentence

         ii
the only things flying
are the unmarked planes
that play pale hopscotch
and piss unnamed
disease in the clouds

           iii
would there were
lesser woods
to waste on burial –
if these idiots allowed
I would erupt in scarlet
underwater fireworks
for a few young sharks

.

.

  :,

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