The Burning Bird is Flying

The half charred husk
the bird still smouldering
flown by some insinuating force
as if alive and seeing
through the morning of these hands
as if each act a forest
all their gestures, fine and furtive
collapsing in black cascades.
Lofting in figuresque spirals.
the air sustained smokey flows
and tiny, floating words
like ashes mixing, crashing, fallen.
The hovering husk stuttered as it failed
in the mirror, the bird was my birth
I saw my eye on fire; a way of flying
lethal, and forbidden. A burning way.
The bird collapsing. Husks and ash.
The mirror’s black.