I wrote an aubade because
I’m not a bird but I rise early,
Though not enough to call it late.
The rustle of my feathers – I contain it,
For otherwise I’ll make you come to life.
When I lean closer with my beak not touching
Your solid surface, I always hold my breath.
I do that so that I can distinguish
Your blinded sleep from my own death.
I’m not a bird but someone told me
That that’s the only way to fly.
I always do while you’re made of marble.
But you’re how I know the geometry
Of the sky.