i cannot find well enough swoops of wing to encourage the flutter of dust
it does not fold itself into cruel enough situations to be safe
a promise is far too cute, far too delicate to number
the mistakeness too impossible to appreciate, too large to avoid
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how the unerring felt the swelling within its own tomes
and lost their bearings throughout their own homes
and in the air a starling had flown
with a wing-held air staring up into the unknown
bee stings and gossamer strings
for those that lay dead peering out of the solemn face
there were none left of those of us that had gone
in a wing-held air staring up into the unknown
collectively, it is one emergency
ready for us to carry it again
and there are ravens in the garden
the blue page is what we cannot say
considered it, from beginning to end, beyond all sense
steady it on and do your best to help it be
there are ravens in the garden
flattering birds that are bound to go free