Hope is fistful of bird ticking,
One which is which, not who.

One which comes back to be
Just underwear, every night

Which you wear under  skin
Hang  to dry on a clothesline.

Which is child of  black bird
Squirms as I enter its space

Which shivers before flower
Sucks a little left over honey,

Which is  child in a waiting
Knowing a  shadow behind

Yet thinks  it does not exist
Being a willing ass of itself.

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