• Seneca Basoalto

Screaming Bluebirds

the death of me goes with you too, where sometimes I can see breath pause

when you think everything else is moving / it’s all in the way you receive

light and indent your buds directly into the earth – leaping as if one of us

were to fall asleep inside sunbeams to the tune of screaming bluebirds giving

birth one last taste of honey whose magic you stole from the slowest flower

in the garden, witnessing her wings when they slid shut after cough syrup

swarmed the constant dissociation ruining my youth, wet with August and

cold hands / cold mouth, pressing apologies into apples.

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