on the bench of my gaze two birds nesting

neck buried in neck, in the moment resting.

when the second bird is far away the first

sets on my shoulder, chirps in my cheeks

and pecks at the words crumbed in my hands

like grains of my mouth. i briefly believe

that i have feathers too, that i too have an eye

for grubs, worms, and other flights of pleasure

but when the second bird comes around again

and spreads its lower charms and swallows

in its upper warms the first fuzz, leaflittle buzz

i am reminded that i am not a bird, never

can be, never can have a nest of my own

(look at how many little efforts have to be gathered)

that the sun can only mean death for the moonsoaked

beetle struggling on its back with black alienation.

that the only nest for a tired bird is air itself

like vain little hands reaching for the uppermost shelf.

~ ajay

25/3/2022