by Robbie Coburn

Almost burnt the pages
and abandoned everything,
striking a match and setting fire
to the writing —

that big book of your
chosen suffering.

you turned and left the paper
as it was and stepped outside
into the nebulous air.

drunk again as you walked alone,
thinking only of your own heart
and the futile words converging.

there may have been
an infant bird in your path,
tangled and held
in the grass’ fist

but even then, you wouldn’t
have considered stopping

to pry its tiny body free.