My feet are not there
and my ankles are lonely,
cut off at the joints, the fine threads
dangling uselessly, flicking
The tops of trees, if there
were trees to flick
birds into the sky
(they do not fly themselves)
They are a lonely shape
in vain. They must be pushed
from the nest to fall on their faces.
But we all have the same face.
It is blue and it is cold. It is
the night face at the window.
And it is the same face inside
and looking out.
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