Pitch

I may stand in a dark room on collapsible legs but
I can’t stand the drone of passing cars
drowning out the shrieks of bright lorikeets.

Duller birds than these will unite in a stone
drop
from
heaven
while you will pitch right on
red tipped wing and dive.

Red tipped
like fiery pepper
berries which burn the lips

Your slender fingers wave
gently in the breeze and
spill spiral shadows over white

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