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Put me on a long couch
(there's a dead bird on the porch)
where I can hear the most soothing
sounds of empire

but I can't stop listening to the sirens
(its wings wet and bare of feathers)
the raunch of days run past the sacred
(I'm kneeling at its side while walking
up the stairs)
the cushions are burning

I'm alone in a hallelujah
the strands of uplift violins
and thin bones crackling in the ears
(was there ever a bird that fell,
a bird that flew)
the eaves fall down around the draining world
of which I am
the siphon sprouting horns