I could
give you context,
and it would turn over
in your hands
like a broken bird.

...a bay window,
so frantic
in its
paralysis.
Only dust on the palms,
or,
in a tiny plot
in the backyard.
And its meaning
is skewed.
As I open
up my wings

(Unfolded like paper airplanes)

and glide
to my death,
depending
on your
breeze.

At least
that bird
could fly.