There are days you can't remember who you are.
You spend hours looking for old pieces of yourself
behind the cushions of the sofa, the bathroom mirror,
the eye of the potato, that safe soft place
where you hid the purse of possibility,
but words slip away,
you empty out pockets full
of useless rhyme and incident.
You open your mouth and feathers fall out,
- primaries and coverts into the air -
Lifted up on the thermal of your breath,
they roost in the crown of your head
then take themselves out the window
and play puck with the plums in the high garden.
You try to follow them and meet yourself
coming back with a poem
that wants to give itself to you,
but your hands shake too much to grab onto it.