It’s never about birds in poetry;
it is about our inadequate,
marrow-filled bones that
weigh us down
reminding us of the immediacy
of the dust.
It’s never about stars in poetry;
It is about drinking from the night
As from the floodwaters of Noah –
Watching the Ark pull from shore
Without you. At least you
Will not die of thirst,
Those receding lights
Your final comfort.
From Jilly’s November “Casting Bricks”
Jilly in bold, my abomination follows.