Drunk on Berries
This glass, here. This pane
the bird will throw itself at, into. Not through,
though we may startle at the thought.
in the house, panicked and swooping.
What we heard of
bad luck, trying, trying to guide back out the window – the one
not broken, but opened.
We are unsteady on our feet, as if
at sea, miming the bird’s antics.
All the berries on the bush, picked and feasted upon. Slushy
and ripe with fermentation, early frost. Berries quashed
on the walk, staining the soles of our shoes. Shat out
further along: the crimson and white and the seed
making its way intact.
with its dive and plunge.
Not to worry – all this fevered pitch no more than
for a moment.