A Bird Shit On My Head and It Was a Metaphor

They are building a nest there, you know?

The sticks and twigs with

Our stones, our bones,

scattered on hardwood.

We lay there. We dream of their eggs.

They fall from the chandelier. AND,

We slow dance on the shells together.

With the music of the song of the caged birds

with a broken heart. They sing all night

next to the lamppost light.

They think we are the sun.

But where are the worms?