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