The Walls

I worked in a bookshop.
Small birds died in the walls.
The song inevitable, I learned
the dance dust did.
Walls that wouldn't burn
parted us and floored the form
of walls that sounded like birds.
You stood in a field that bore night.
In the field stood a wall that held
the birds. Beyond the wall,
songs of walls, and behind
those walls, confusing the song,
you, shivering blank keys.

Copyright © 2007 Matthew Henriksen All rights reserved
from Redivider
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission