The Radiator is White, The Crows are Black, I am Tired.

(staring at the radiator.)

the birds
are
scratching
their way out of
the cage,

i can hear them
through the hazy white
of the radiator in front of me
and the sweated matted body
of your form beside me.

someone is banging
their wrench
on the radiator.
i will hurt them
if i ever get my hands
around their precious
throats,
which is doubtfull

at the temperature
and hour.

the crows
(vulgar, clever,
birds)
are
cawing
loud outside
the window,

i can hear them,
i detest them
and the wake up call
they hand me,
(i should stand tall
and caw back,
if i was braver)

are they flying over me,
outside the window,
it scares me
since the bandits came.

inside my head,
held hurting by the heat in this room
and the patient movements of my
stealthy death,
the bus is here.

i don't speak English,
anymore.

the woman
(black like the birds)
is talking
about how
she hates Paris.

has she ever encountered
the birds inside that city,

les corneilles ne sont pas
les plus mauvais oiseaux dans le ciel.

(i haven't
slept
in days.)