Otium
Nests of vomit and shit knit the roof edges—
we threw stones at them like a favor,
a chore we’d do for free—
gathering the baby birds
that fell featherless
and blind. We decided to play house,
so we tucked them in
our shirts and walked to the kitchen
for milk. Our parents asked us how
we found the birds— in the sky
a plague of swallows screeched a bruise.
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