-burning old love letters-

boy and his daily pail of ash
clanking about the white tones of
an old morning

stops to climb the oak outside her
bedroom, the handle of the pail
between his teeth

until he reaches the nest of
a starling, collects the five eggs
grey in his palm

and scoots his way toward the end of
a branch, letting the pail drop with
his halting smile.

boy and his handful of starlings,
tossing them one by one through her
open window

and waiting for her not to come,
and giving the branch a hug, and
done with his pail.