My self is always crawling
out the window
to where the birds are
It would be nice to think
they are more free
to move, to be
But they survive, mostly.
Scavenge, fuck, and shiver
tareando for young
born and die
born and die again
keeping on
año tras año
I want to call it puro
But the word comes to me curled
in a blanket
self and gaze in flight
from my domesticated flesh
En ala
Life in the Multiverse 