i have given up on grief. 

a bird dies in the window it saw a life for itself in. 

i hurt people and they

hurt me. sleet falls at the exact

angle you leave me. a bird 

flying straight ahead has no idea. 

 

i cannot bear the idea that i hurt 

people i love 

and their slanted faces

when love is so round. 

i’m tired of shaping grief

when it circles back to you. 

snowballs pelt our faces, leaving

sharp cuts behind. if we curve the

window, the bird only lives seconds 

more before sputtering open.