There on the ivory crusted perch –
It is too cold to sing,
So I only hum –
The bird outside sits

With a feathery scarf ruffled
In a shrug –
Somewhere between “I don’t know,”
And “it’s too cold to answer” –
He roosts silently
To wait out the storm.

You can’t catch fireflies;
They have tiny wings
Keeping them afloat like clouds.

Glimpsing in and out like radar
They cannot be caught in strong light –
Their signal is too weak.

Ships are lost at sea
When their light houses grow dark.
Perhaps that is what they are for us?

Large masses in a sea of light –
Never too far nor too close to shore –
But there, when it gets the darkest, a small light
Comes as a tiny beacon of hope.

How lonely my other body looks without me.
My bones hollow to the wind-
Blackening at the edges.
Darkness cruel and unyielding;
Take the final glaze from my eyes.
Warmth running away
on the rain soaked black top.

Free me from this feeling-
From this blur of motion;
Of sound; of pain I replay.
Feathers, fur and fingers-
Dying at both ends.

Don’t patronize me with your glances.
Don’t break my bones again.
You so high up;
 tires, and Headlights,
 engines and glances.
A victim of the black top.