The coffee's instant - it raises
the hackles on my grey suit
but I make do. A man is not free
to be ungrateful. Still, I'm driven
outside, and up the hill, where, back pressed
to the stone and mud, I identify swallows.
The white breast, the turning like
a badly built paper plane, thrown
in a moment of frustration.
So close to the uneven ground
they could shave the grass.
Catch myself; beyond the birds,
hovering like a cold moon
over the tumuli that cap the peaks,
the underbelly of a mothership.
