Yesterday I Saw A Wandering Albatross
Some say the world is forgivable
acid in rain, sick
underbellies of clouds, pallid, dying, yellow
light all we have left of the sun;
music gone, growls of
things once in treetops silenced,
empty, bristling pelts lying
where grass shriveled
to crimson dust.
Tongue swiping across a row of
pearls, browned and cracking, aging
tasting of earth now bitter, acrid—and
bright eyes, the last words of stars,
scouring land where only cracks
and scars of fighting nature lost remain
a pile of feathers.
(Some birds aren't meant for eating).
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