A tiny bird poem

Mountain river valley love

Sparrow eagle owl dove

Chirpin' perchin' flyin' high 

Hummin' notes awash a fuchsia sky.

Shut In

Honestly, I don't feel like bed is betrayal,

staying up was always a badge of honour:

I did it because I could after the Europeans

showed me. What am I learning, laughing 

at my reflection in a nightclub mirror, somewhere.

It's nearly ten years since the summer

I spent in the bathroom, misrepresenting

the world to

anyone in my field of view,

showing it so expansive and attainable,

my shame at the glib head rush of 

twitchy commentary,

propelling me to the morning

and up to lunch that had no need for hunger

needing no lunch and beyond to dinner,

a corner shop scraping,

and my own bathroom, the different groupings

of the dimmers

none putting a spin on it

all pointing to the light of 

the different shades of my jaundice.

The badge I wore with such 

honour then.