Hollow Birds


Like children, we made hollow birds
from newsprint and
thin paste (slimy,

salted, unleavened

smelling of coatrooms,
classrooms, rubber
boots,

rain).

The cellar doors
were
open; the night
poured down the cellar stairs.

I drove us northward into pinewoods
(morning, the colour of newspapers
carried in burlap, delivered in a steady rain).

We could see our breathing,
we could hear our shallow steps,

the wind, the water
dripping from our hair. Later,

we placed hard, hollow birds
together by the edge of the lake.
I took a picture of you
falling
into a pile of leaves, I took
a picture of motionless birds.



JDP 97/08


Copyright John D Porter © 1997



Also posted in Jennifer Ley's hypertext poetry and graphics mazepages:
The Astrophysicist’s Tango Partner Speaks





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