Dead bird lies in the gutter
Feathers spread like a fan.
I asked Cliff who was painting a house red
Did he see when and how
The bird came to be?
Cliff opened his mouth and a peacock bouquet
Fanned from his tongue
All purple and blue
He said, “I don’t rightly know, Young Blood Bird.
But sorrow and beauty
Are the stories of love.
And that bird is the sum of all you are to be.”