The Blackbird’s Ghost

Drifting home, three-quarters asleep,
I am welcomed by the sound of Humboldthain
in those chilled crystalline nights of early Spring,
but it’s broken by the cars and one suspicious dog;
the shards stick in my neck and once again,
this ghost-town street becomes a tourniquet.

But the sound comes back – three blackbirds
and their one perfect love song, taking me back
to drifting home, three-quarters asleep,
gliding with eyes as heavy as my bones
until the song that echoes from the shadows
of awakening branches and buried scars
throws starlight in my face,
awakens feathers in my heart.

It takes me back, as it took me back,
as I must go back, but not this time:
this time, I fall through a door
so bored it knocks itself, and listen
to the fridge as it tries to sing along.

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