Small as you are, you know the net that caught
the bird that ate the fruit, the one the farmer
wanted gone. Then everything would be better,
finally, forever. What is the point of singing
when the world spins so hard that people fight 
each other to stand, much less walk? You are alone. 
Get that through your thick head. No one 
gives a damn, as if even a curse might be a gift, 
any attention undeserved. Out of the fist, 
the glass wandered away from the blood, 
the other hand open to the air, the entire body 
on the floor of the farmhouse waiting to be found
as bodies in this part of the country often are.
The night before it died, the bird sang.