Small bits of tinsel between my teeth, building
a home from words wrapped
in strings of cool blue and earthy tans.
Each weave a subject stuck by ad-hock adhesive:
mud, clay, feathers, the tangle
of a spider’s web no longer being spun.
Can you tell I’m a bird, fluttering
The ache of labor, imperative to build
shelter; to become restless in cooling wind.
Neither cavity nor cup,
but crumpled paper and leaking ink.