There is a bird flying into my chest!

There is a bird flying into my chest!

When I wake in the morning, it curls back, ruffles

as I brush my teeth. It swirls

into the lunch-room, hungry for my name. Still,

it canters into the windshield as I drive, breaks its neck

to see me.  Again,

there is a beak, eyes locked—

a blind bird not knowing. Both of us

whirled in madness, being here,             separated.

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