Seven nightingales ago
in a waking dream
where the sky was black
and the moonlight streaming
you and I shared a cage and wrote songs to each other
we kept what we'd written like newspaper clippings
but the tip of the fountain pen cut through the paper
and they started to fly but the words were confused
and they hung in the air
beating their wings
they had warm scarlet throats
they were tiny and green
and they cried and they cried
and turned hard like a stone
they pelted the window until finally it broke
seven mourning doves later
when I awoke
there was glass on the floor and a blank piece of paper
the room was as still as the end of a prayer
and nothing came from their cold scarlet throats
but dead green words
were everywhere.