Read this poem at NNATAN’s page.
birds are burning,
& I’m walking with nothing but a snaking horn,
Singing photographs from silent stars
the camera of time’s tiny bones
partially buried backwards through the sound or rhythms
Missing from music.
When those birds
above their own flames,
Attempt to veil softly, reflecting any feather artifacts
closer to mine.
when we are blind:
Keep the birds clean,
& even angels won’t understand