Time holds me

in her hands

like I am some baby

bird, straight

from hatch, fallen

from the pine.

Then, she

begins to close

her grip, but

my lungs aren’t getting any smaller.

I’m not getting any smaller.

Time strangles me

one lung at a time.

I become

flightless gore.

How did I ever sing?

How could I ever make it 

to sky?

-Iris