Drunk on the spinning of their shadows,
the Starlings bend with the grace of the horizon line,
inhale headless wasps,
shout obscenities at their grievances,
hold their hearts high, then softly in their palms.
No pavement palace, no clean, white-paint walls,
no shiny air conditioner,
could be enough for hearts that crave
moss in their teeth, foxtail in their hair,
soil and each other in the grooves of their skin.
Boldly, Madly, Gently,
lived a thousand ridiculous ways,
none of it would ever make sense.
PLUTO BLOOMING 