Bird

When love comes through
the vents, you press wet rags against the grill, lest you are smoked out of your loneliness, you tape egg-boxes to your ears so you can't hear the hissing, you swathe yourself in shame like vinegar and brown paper. At sundown, you gather up the rags and press them to your face like the dress of a lover, hoping for a slight effect, the remnants of a rush-not enough to change your mind-
- just
enough to pacify the night.