This is when the birds start to lay eggs. And this
one starts to uncoil. Today the sky is most unfriendly.
Downright hostile, one could say. All pallid, all doughy, all
globule, all spasm, all unshapely, all unspun. When at last
they can’t find you anywhere, they remove the breathing
tube. Every scrap of cloth. It is dream it is denim it is done.
It is the caribou thundering off.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.
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