bird on the rain

you told me skin is a death
as well; no voice left,
a painful bone-glue voodoo
would you continue
to fly against a cratered moon
away from love,
the fields and poetry?

would you sleep in
turtle-green seas
in finch blue-clucked sun
if it is a crime to
drown your emotions
conceal the beauty
of the hawks and blood-birthed
autumn leaves
behind your crippled sight

and then we talk again
beneath crushing brick mortar
your outer shell
so unreachable

would you reverse your burning mask,
paper-mouthed black swans swimming
red to unslept migraine electric eyes?

i want to scream 'how would we fly?'
naked and eating green apple words
on chipped old classic sculptures,
riding thumb- altered conversions
of our tiny deaths each time our voices fade

when i am left dangle-limbed in corpse-orchards
on glass edges of your dancing mind
always the dead of  your night

call!
call me out
only then can i fly

and i will come to you:
your bird on the rain
to remove the bloody cotton from your mouth