who would think
on some clear saturday afternoon
the park would besave for my whispering footsteps
and the soft coo
of birds?

i'll stitch feathers
together for a quilt of
stitches
and wings
to keep me soft
on these cold
waiting
secret
winter nights

protect me

for we are drawn
to the very beast that eats us

piece by
piece.

lines form themselves
out
slowly
in some vast space before
me
making something
whole
but i can only see
bits
again.

(we're such destrustive
creatures
killing
everything
and ourselves.)

you cant force bits to stick
together
for you
they have to do it on their own
waiting
time

my breath
parting the col
slicing it
inside something
tears

it's done.