Red Bird

Where my safehouse meets my crawlspace
is a little birdhouse in a concrete tree
where a red bird chirps his little heart out, trying to follow a cerulean jet trail across the patchwork sky until the sun turns black, and fiber optic cobwebs grow
in the corner of the of the sky.
There the world becomes a neon spider
with beer ads festooned across its torso.
My cathedral crumbles in
the eye of a microscope and my
house is haunted by corrupted files
and old data, chemtrails and ghost stories, which serves me well but ties up my software, the jet trail becomes a sunset of electric blue bonnets, illuminating a bright-eyed horizon of steel and glass with a river of lights
parading through concrete, a place
where words and bodies entwine to build a little nest for that restless little bird.

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