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Tiny Gods

A bird at the window is a tiny god
heart soiled, still beating, limp yet

breath of this late summer
bloom, heat of autumn turned fire

as though she's drunk herself
into late night oblivion

from human suffering and ordinary pity
at the window, red brown golden flicker.

No it is not death but some longing
for youth, some greed of soft thighs--

stay, don't go into that cold night
body snapped shut with winter and age.

I woke to dreams of death
and now alone, the bird at my window

god of hope and lost dreams--

come back all of you
come back.

Turn inward
when the breath gets lost

your tea and eyes without screens,
device-less, your body in the woods of gold,

believe in the sacred ordinary
that this poem and this day

need not be
more than a reprieve

a breath like fire as we turn
and go into this long battle.

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