Your house in the trees

You live in bird houses, now;

I visit you there,

these late summer nights,

in the heights. 

Brown bags & fire hydrants,

the constant chesty drone,

tiny rooms,

ice blue against the heavy green. 

Are you happier there,

than you were before?

Still,

you're there when I close my eyes at night and open them in the morning and in the dreams, throughout. 

You live in bird houses now. 

I wish you'd fly away. 

You've stained everything,

the things you've ruined. 

I wish you wouldn't, and hope,

someday—you won't. 

When you come down,

from your house in the trees,

and I read to you,

warbly, trembling, finally—

this life, without you. 

You live in birdhouses now,

in the trees, in the thorns. 

Look down. 

There's magic, here,

too.