Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
Birds
Three birds high in the air
my lips tremble just for a bit.
One is for Amy
one beside it for Suzanne
the other that is with them
though a little apart
must be for Arty, who was not stabbed.
One lonely tear leaks and slides down my cheek
chest tremblling under my shirt.
My head wants to swim in spirals of madness
because I don't know
what kind of birds
they are . . .
All three lie dead,
while three birds fly high in the air.
© D. Winter 1999
