I do not sleep, night after night.
I stomp my snock-wall cranium, leave bloody bootprints and bone bruises.
We are birds in the canopy. We hear each other sing, we squabble, we pine for each other, and fly from place to place.
Carouse the high room of love, work the day for worms. Regular as dirt. We finish under the canopy, unnamed, indistinguishable from brown stems and dead branches. And gone, all gone.