Love, time and a bird
a starling sings outside my window.
Love is caves of ice, corpses in dried mud, roses where eyes should be,
its twittering limbs, all a dance for touch, and
a kiss, left on the lips so long
that it burns.
But Love is not just physical,
love is a glance through shelves of books, something hidden amongst them,
breathing in the dark, inevitable and vast,
its fleeting, skittish and hides its face a lot, behind hands or napkins,
at best its tragedy, at worst left unrequited
Now, frozen bird,
sing for us;
why do you no longer