Burroughs Types

Hey it's raining, come here.

-I know.

-Come here.

-What are we going to do if it's the end?

-It's not the end.

Bird feeder

He feeds birds

In my mind
in the city
playing with words
he can remember
from his language
left behind.

He feeds birds
he keeps them captive
in cages kept clean
with newspapers
of human filth

stories unfolding
always the same
and yet unknown
all entangled
in our hair

until one day
we set them free.