The Bird

Here is the sky, this dome of air
this sector of freedom carved for me
Here are the bounds of the universe
the filaments of metal tree,
pretty sentries to filter
my excrement and hope.

I blink and wait, for you to come
and shush my call for a mate, for love.

Specks of dust and bits of life
fly here in whirls of ever-dance,
unseen by the woman.

They say help, those things.
I hug myself with obsolete wings.