babel

I surmise the shape of glass yet forth sand flows. And the bird laughs. The little blue one. Whose name a sand itself for all my grasp to grasp. Dances the wind and sings it soar, the little blue one. My hand, the sand, the flow. And the bird laughs.

I whistle the wind with mimicry most. A stroke and a song, I sweep through the air. But a breath of breeze denies the name, the word, the tongue. And I hear the laugh. The little blue one. Whose beak is blood. My blood, your blood, no blood. 

I crawl a crack of rock to climb the sky. And daylight breaks my grip. A wing melts. And a plummet. Yet a little blue fly flitters my fall and caterwauls the corpse of me. The little blue one. Whose wing is white with dust. And cane.

I run a rage of noncontent. With this furious feast of fear. I seek the truth and echo a lie. And my legs sever saving. And the feather silences sad at my crooked cracked leg. The little blue one. Whose heart is whole with ambrose.

And she asks me my name. And I cry rigor
And she asks me my name. And I cry fool
And she asks me my name. And I cry darkness
And she asks me my name. And I cry sand

And the little blue one. Takes flight.

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