My father is watching his father die on a lime-green pillow.
The tumours nestle in his crotch like the eggs of a sparrow.
Birds smash into pillars of glass and concrete on my iPhone.
The plastic silhouette of a hawk wards the hospital windows.
Like iron filings, the sky is magnetised with squalls of crows.
I imagine one smashing the glass, splintering its hollow bones.
More. Battering the windowpane to a mesh of feathery holes.
The building jagged with beaks and wings. Corridors tremolo.
Us bearing him out like Tippi Hedren as The Birds closes.
Feathers drifting from the vault of the sky like black snow.
The infinite flocks weighing up our claims on a tomorrow.

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