someday i will probably die all over

factory of birds
where they harvest those bright feathers
for craft stores.
loud clinking: red, blue, yellow,
green, gold, black white.

the birds in rows
non-specific species 
machine noises
conveyor belt 
the birds sit thinking only 
about re-growing
another crop of feathers,
locating the stems.

does corn think 
about height? maybe they
challenge each other--
one corn says to another:
i will deliver an ear 
to a cloud.

i tell the clouds
they can come inside
my ears to hide. a rabbit
crouching in a cave--
i feel the cloud's fear.
the cloud doesn't want 
to be angry & grey
but knows 
that will happen.

when my hair is grey it
will be scraggly corn hairs. 

the clouds
are dropping their husks 
like bath robes. it's not
obscene but definitely 
sexual.

don't forget about feathers.
birds try not to talk
to each other. they focus 
on their bodies &
the huge color yielded 
by their plumage.

i buy all sorts of feathers--
bags & bags. i toss them 
on the floor of my room
& tell them to turn back 
into birds. i want all
the colorful birds.

instead the feathers yawn 
& become clouds against
my wishes. a flock of
clouds in my house:
indigo & red & green clouds.

i tell them not to rain 
in here because it'll dye 
everything. they don't listen
& they dye all over.
someday i will probably die
all over so i forgive 
the clouds. i let them 
die on me: brief rain 
then dust, no feathers.

factory machine noises  
are echoing somewhere
& i glimpse that sound.

i want to be a bird
in the factory. i want
to lay there & make feathers
to be stripped 
from skin-- fill 
shelves with my feathers.

there's corn all over
the kitchen table listening
to the conversation i'm having
with myself in my head.
i tell the corn not 
to tell anyone what they hear.

the corn laughs & turns
into feathers.