After the Fires (A Nightmare)
 

Sparrows enter through doors and windows, lured
by unseen forces, exit in a flurry of chimney smoke.

Stain of flutter. Shimmering carcinogens. Not burning
but batting wings to ash. To ashes. Not burnt but

spurting from the funnel smudged and frenzied, some
dark thing possessing them. Passing through the stack,

they emerge changed and skittering. This is the reason
I shake in doorways, cringe at hinges, tremble when

I am drawn toward some sunrise, some small
kindness, anything tender. Pressure in my chest,

a column building—a plume of sparrows rises.