before putting it in my drink.
The egg burning still.

Lightning and sun on the leaves,
blue-grey behind the brownstones.

Too powerful, the bird call
outside, above the chainsaw.

Engine; bark; brakes:
constant sounds of the city,

not often helpful.
I’ve brought no clothes

for a funeral. I’m rationalizing
a death. This place

becomes my home. Brooklyn,
the brownstone.

Home, you go insane.
My head, a virtual idea file.

Get a microphone.
It empties all the time.

Conserve the ice
when it’s hot outside

when you don’t want to leave.
I make a large mess.

Red bricks against
green leaves.

It had been raining;
a tree was growing.

Through screen, blinds,
and the tree behind,

a bird flew in
under my eyes.

The bird flying in,
bird singing in the tree,

the tree flying in,
scary. I thought the blinds

and screen
could protect me,

forgot smell, feel: the air
was the bird

in the tree flying in.
The bird singing.

I opened my eyes, gray
glowering lines.