The sky itches with bird bites. A rash forms, the doctor says cirrus clouds. The clouds are like white feathers whose spines give off frail arms. Like a goddess who exhausted releases extra limbs. The doctor says doves are disintegrating in the sky’s blue skin. She is so mapped by nipping beaks she just can’t stand it and she rakes herself with the forked feet of those birds, that singing disease, and she strokes terribly until blood-streaked she mottles into the perfect frantic sunset. The doctor says the sky is dreaming. In her dream, flowers sing like water when they leave their stems for heaven.
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