Oil, Not Amber

My dreams are thick like spilling oil,
dark and sticking
to the birds I’ve tried to beg into flight.
Canaries and crows — bluebirds —
ravens; their bodies all slick with staying.
My dreams are a heavy thing full of sky
— full of weighted wings always wanting more
that wake me from my sleep with their silence
and leave me licking blood from my teeth.
There is a vulture inside of me
circling the swell of shadow I sometimes call my heart
where nothing has moved for years.
I wonder how to save those small, strange birds
who still insist they are trapped in amber
— over and over —
their small eyes dark as spilling oil.

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