Can I hide under your warm plumage tonight, please?


Grey mushroom clouds
hang on a sky sunless, stolid
Lamentation begin
as the flowers wilt
in your lonely bird’s beak.
But tonight the blood moon
will rise in her purple iris
and the night river undulate
through her lifeless veins.
And she would say,
“Can I hide under your warm plumage tonight please
and hear the music of your sorrowful heart beating?”

A beautiful story and performance by Andrea Gibson..