Waiting for the Burn

Every evening, 
a foreign sermon, 

footsteps towards
a distant shore, 

a mournful flute
whose throat tightens

and cries "mend
my heart!"

The burning
songbird's ashes

rise in spirals,
a dark tug pulls

the soul up
out of its bottle.

Where I crouch
in the back fields,

a simple brown bird
with broken bones

and old scars, 
anonymous eyes,

waiting for another
dream-filled night

where mortal fires
burst into flower.