"A blink, to a cat, is a kiss," I said.
"And you're a little wounded bird
I want to take home and mend,"
I spend my days in screens
and my nights screaming
inside dreams. I'm alive for
the mountains and trees.
"A song is a yawn to some," he said.
"Not to my tribe, no never," I cringed.
He'd uncovered my weakness,
exploited the holes of my soul
where I am incomplete.
"Drink this," he said, "it'll make
a man out of you." "But I already
out-man you in so many ways,"
I peered out the morning window
at sun-soaked leaves,
at a gemstone sky so perfect
with bubbly clouds of snow.
As if blinded by glare
I had to shield my eyes and turn.